


Not more Marvel imagines

by HelpingHanikan



Category: Black Panther (2018), Captain America (Movies), Daredevil (TV), Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Murder, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Endgame? What's that?, Explicit Language, F/M, Gen, Gun Violence, Imagines, Marvel - Freeform, Mind Control, Non-endgame compliant, Now with Pietro, Reader Insert, Self-indulgant, Some Swearing, Spoilers, The Decimation, Trying my best, marvel imagines, soulmate aus, violence against reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2019-10-26 08:51:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 37,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17742812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelpingHanikan/pseuds/HelpingHanikan
Summary: Every relationship has it's up and downs, it's domestics and life or death situations.It just seems to be more so for the relationships involving the Avengers. Come thick or thin you're in it together.(Taking requests)





	1. After the Snap

**After the Snap**

 

**Steve Rogers:**

          His knees are weak the moment he sees you. One of the strongest men in the world makes it six steps upon seeing you.

            You, hand pressed above your brow towards the sun. starting a slow walk towards the small (too small group) making their own way towards you. You began to run towards him, full force sprinting down a hill the battle had just happened.

            The new shield hits the dirt and he falls over you. Weight was too much, you couldn’t support it. On his knees, hands gripping your forearms, faced buried into your abdomen. He’s silent, the others pass without looking back. It isn’t until your hands go into his hair that he begins to sob, letting out sound between a cry and a yell.

            You’d find bruises on your arms later. You’d wear long sleeves to hide them from him.

* * *

 

**Tony Stark:**

          Your leg goes a mile a minute waiting for the phone to ring. Staring at the screen, every channel saying the same thing a different way.

            “The end times are here,”

            “Emergency services are backed,”

            “Millions reported missing in the first two hours,”

            “No word on the whereabouts of the Avengers at this time,”

            Happy promised to call as soon as he could, Piper saying the same and you promising third. No word from Peter, you having to hear a panicked May over the phone. Her anger and fear reaching a point you almost couldn’t handle.

            Turn off the TV and your leg hasn’t settled.

* * *

 

**Thor:**

          To anybody who wasn’t aware of Thanos, the decimation was nothing but confusing for several days. This was your situation; a once filled elevator briefly becoming black before settling around your feet. White sweater now dark as night.

            The entire world was silent for days; your parents weren’t answering, so many emails went unanswered, anyone with authority weren’t getting orders. Then, the world started screaming. You couldn’t go anywhere without phones screaming on some corner of the street or someone with a sign screaming about the end times. Churches were filled to the brim. Good church goers wondering where they went wrong to miss God’s trumpets.

            One of those screams was an email. Dr. BB was trying to get in touch with you.

            Thor arrived on your building’s roof a few hours later.

            He was different, so much different but still so him.

            “You’re tired.” You said, standing on tip-toes to cup his face with both hands.

            His forehead presses against yours. Kissing your hair line. Taking over the placement of your arm to hold your face. His lips and scratchy cheeks kissing any point of your face. By the time he slowed and just breathed against you, your feet were straining from being on toes for so long.

* * *

 

**Bucky Barnes:**

            Your arm disappearing wasn’t painful. Skin becoming black and into ash, some drifting into the air and a few clumps hitting the ground. The last thing you see is Shuri’s hands going to her face.

            On your back, water that’s not wet up to your ears. The sky is orange and it’s hard to see the difference between it and the water. It’s oddly comfortable, but terrifying that everything had changed so suddenly that barely a full sentence could get out.

            There are others, dark shadows in the distance shuffling slow through the water. Tall, short and others wondering around. A Toddler was even crawling around, close enough you could see what it was but far enough away you couldn’t hear them Anything you yelled was reverberated back in an echo.

            A glint from a non-existence sun hits the corner of your eye. Metal, a hue of silver in an equal distance to the other shadows.

            “Bucky!” you skipped the question and went straight for yelling.

            “Bucky! James!” no matter how far you run, he’s never gonna get closer.

* * *

 

**Natasha Romanoff:**

          Her hand runs through dust between blades of grass. It was unlikely that all of it was just you, likely combined with warriors who own partners were holding back tears. It also unlikely that you had still been standing in this spot when she had left.

            You had forced her to take a step back before leaving, kissing her cheek and telling her to “go get him”. It was a tradition from when you had first gotten serious. Usually you’d be sure to leave a mark of lip stick or gloss. Your little mark of “she is mine”.

            Her fingers trace over where your lips had been. Leaving to join Steve in his own silent grief.

Bruce Banner:

          He’s covered in sweat from the Hulk smasher. Falling into you but refusing his weight to drag you down.

            “You’re here, you’re good,” Bruce was hard to read with emotions. Refusing anger and exchanging it with others; humor, sadness or mass anxiety. This time he is laughing slightly, holding your face with both hands. “You’re okay.”

            “I’m okay,” You say, hands to his shoulders.

            He leans into you. A hug in the middle of the lab, that weighs you both down to the floor.  

* * *

 

**T’challa:**

          Okoye breaks the news that you already assumed.

            Queen Ramonda stifles a gasp and looks towards the floor where you were already staring. Although you were an outsider, and been with T’challa for only awhile, your hand slides into hers. She grips it firmly.

            Okoye didn’t have a choice. Your other hand reaching out to hers, taking her hand and pulling her in. Her staff clangs into the floor, dropping it in exchange for taking her Queen’s other hand.

            Dust from her hand rubs into yours. A separation between your skin that digs her nails into your palm.

* * *

  **Pietro Maximoff**

It would be some time before anyone even saw Pietro. Hours of just gray or white rushing by and gone just as quick.

            It was hard to say who he was looking for first; you or Wanda. Not that it mattered one lick, just wanting one of you to be standing there, somewhere, doesn’t matter where. Sitting confused in the woods, sobbing with others back in the palace, or even laying unconscious in the field. Hurt but still alive and just needing his help.

            He just needed one of you, preferably both.

* * *

 

**Peter Parker:**

          Ned texts you after Peter jumps from the bus.

            Peter texted you a moment or two later. _‘Going into space, show video later’_.

            After that it was dead from his end. You had texted a passive aggressive text about rescheduling your date for the next day. Sending another about the first being a joke, sending a third about wanting to actually do something instead of just watching Netflix. Another that you were okay with Netflix just no pizza, you wanted Chinese. Then another text that you were okay with pizza.

            All your texts came throughout the day until night. Knees to your chest waiting for a reply as your parents become absolutely silent in the other room.

* * *

 

**Stephen Strange:**

          Wong lets you into the sanctum as the world goes insane.  

            “What ever happened to keeping the world safe from-.” You cut yourself off seeing Wong’s face. He was never someone who gave a lot of emotion to outsiders, so seeing the eyebrows drop and his face looking to the floor was both a special and horrifying experience.

            “You’ll stay here,” He says standing next to the round window with you.

            He was kind enough not to add the _“It’s safer”_ part of that statement.

* * *

 

**Matt Murdock:**

            He’s doing that thing again. His head tilting to the side. Slowly walking to the middle of the room as though this will make him hear better.

            With so many crashes happening outside you don’t notice at first. Staring out the window, wondering how so many people can be drunk so early in the morning.

            “The neighbors…” He whispering. “Where are the neighbors?”

            “Matt?” It was a simple question that he ignored.

            “Where-that doesn’t…” The confusion gets worse when his arms became black.

            “Matty?” A nickname you only used to be sicking sweet.

            He makes it two steps towards your voice before he starts to gather around the floor. Falling forward into a pile on your shoes. Arms and chest black, left with nothing.


	2. Soul Mates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Different soulmate AU for each character.

**Soul Mates**

 

 **Steve Rogers:** Name on wrist

            It was just another meeting with the lawyers on Fury’s personal retainer. Four men and women around a table, mountains of paperwork and nothing but droning voices. Making sure that he knew his rights, what people may try to trick him with and that he was a massive entitlement from the government.

            His chair squeaks the farther he leans backwards. Your hands clasp together under the chin, sleeve sliding past the wrist in an enticing manner. Top section of dark gray lettering revealing itself over the dark shirt sleeve.

            Seeing your name on the retainer list was like a shot of caffeine. It was the same spelling, holding his wrist against the small printed name just to make sure. He hadn’t looked at that name since he was woken from ice, assuming who ever he was meant to be with was either dead or close to it.

            He had the chance to check but lost it when all the lawyers nodded instead of shaking hands. For the third time that meeting yours eyes locked for a brief second before looking back down to your papers. By the fourth he was already looking your way and held it.

            Something about insurance, something about past personal affairs.

            From a clasped hands one slides down your marked arm. Cloth gently pulled downwards, showing more and more of skin until the black not-ink was shown raw. You pretend not to notice Steve staring, pretend to be the good lawyer listening to her colleague.

            _Steven Grant Rogers_

His chair squeaks while turning. Your spot at the edge of the table allowed for the show. A sigh and he slides down in the chair, it was hot in the room, perfectly understandable that his sleeves be rolled up. Arm returning, palm up, to over his thigh. Same font, same spot was your first, middle and last name.

            Although there was no difference in volume, and impression from the other lawyers, the entire air turned cold. Clasped hands to your face, staring to the lawyers hoping they’d get your mental message of “hurry up and get out”.

It’d be almost twenty minutes before they got the hint.

* * *

 

 **Tony Stark:** Worlds become color

            He started playing the game in high school.

            “Everyone line up, lets see if any of you get to be Mister or Misses billionaire.”

            For maybe an hour he’d shake hands with every guest willing. An old tradition royalty and nobles did back during the time of swords and mead. The rich still tended to do this, either their child finds their soulmate and they go from there. Or their children became so tired of the years of searching and would give up. Willing themselves to marry within their station.

            It was like a game show for his guests, everyone scrambling for an invite just for the slim chance they see color.

            You were among the regular waitstaff for the Stark parties. A first out of college job while you worked your dreams as an artist. Rich people and their attitudes were always inspiration for your newest piece.

            It was an obvious order that Tony Stark’s hand cannot ever be empty. Black vest and white long sleeves made the staff practically invisible. Anyone near Tony was always ready to replace his empty crystal with a full one. It was four parties into your career with the Starks before you were up next to exchange the glass.

            He didn’t look over when you gently took the empty glass from the top rim. Carefully placing the full glass back into his grip, your fingers touch and the glass shatters.

            He’s brown hair and dark eyes made caramel in the sunlight. His sunglass, ruby red and silver framed, came off in a flash. The shattering of the glass grabbed everyone’s attention, but without Tony yelling (like other guests have in the past) no one made a move to see if anything could be done.

            People talk about meeting their mate and seeing the world’s colors. They talk about who the beauty of the world knocked the wind out of them. They never mentioned how you be left with no idea how to proceed.

            “Hi,” You whispered, starting with an introduction.

            His arm is around your back, pulling your hard into his center, the other held the back of your neck. Hug was tight, his face presses into the side of your neck like a closed mouth his.

* * *

 

**Thor: Red string**

            Confusion was a word too simple to explain your childhood life. All the pictures, all the story books and movies with the little red ribbons always led outwards. A direction into the world you were destined to follow. Yours didn’t do that, yours went straight upwards.

            “That’s stupid,” you friend said when you explained your ribbon. She didn’t believe you, no one you ever told believed you.

            Throughout your life different theories came and went; that your mate was an angel, an alien or maybe they were just dead. By middle school you knew what you had to do; you had to become an astronaut. Red line was going straight up and that’s where you had to go.

            First time it pointed towards somewhere on earth was a major shock. It wasn’t uncommon for people to take a pilgrimage following their ribbon sometime after high school. You honestly had a plan forming to try and find your fallen angel, but the ribbon shot skyward one morning without warning. It was so sudden that your drink spills all over your clothes.

            You never did become an astronaut liked you had dreamed. Not that you ever needed to, one look on the TV and you saw the red ribbon around the wall of the man with the hammer. Hands to your cheeks, how would you ever get to him?

* * *

 

 **Bucky Barnes:** Injuries

          The moment you find your soulmate you’re gonna kick their ass.

            Walking to lunch your shoulder explodes in blood and bone across the tile. Shock keeps you from the pain but screams of your classmates would ring in your ears for years to come. Sirens, an ambulance ride and your resting in the hospital.

            It was like this since you were a new born. A massive injury would appear, and you’d be rushed to the hospital, then there’d be complete radio silence from your soulmate for up to years at a time. It happened several times throughout your life: blasted shoulder, a cut running from your hip to the knee, busted jaw and internal injuries that had you coughing blood. All of these were followed hours later by a headache that had you screaming.

            Bucky stared at you in horror as you tell the stories. Laughing at your story that was absolute terror at one point in your life and was now a funny story.

* * *

 

 **Natasha Romanoff:** Markings you make they get

            It took some time before your mate wrote back. Years of small messages on forearms and little hearts over the collar bone all to get nothing back. The day your bestie ran up to you with a message of “Hi” in messy ink you almost cried.

            One morning, your senior year, there was a smiley face. Right corner of your mouth; two little lines, a dot and a curved line. The ink was thick, like from wet eyeliner, smearing when you touched it. Immediately a picture was taken. With your blue mascara you drew the smallest butterfly on your non-dominate wrist. It would be hours before they drew another, smallest little smiley on your shoulder.

            That was how your relationship for a majority of your life. They never responded with words to your questions you wrote out. Only little smileys and hearts on your body. Their way of saying; I’m still here, my Love, I’m still alive.

            It continued into your adult life, into your work with SHIELD as a lawyer and into that meeting with select Avengers. Steve Rogers, Vision and Natasha Romanoff, the unofficial representatives of the Avengers to the public world. You sat off to the side, little baby lawyer ready to be asked any question but only acknowledged at the beginning.

            Blue pen presses into your palm. Drawing a large heart and adding the little circles within it’s lines. Glancing up every now and then, making sure no one has suddenly decided you’re worth looking to.

            The swirls venture past your palm and onto your hand. Around the thumb, under the fingers and down to the wrist. You’re a grown adult with a college degree and your doodling on your hand. Realizing this you turn back tot eh table. Straightening up in time to see Miss. Romanoff looking right at you. You look away after making eye contact, only looking back to see her pen working below her thumb nail.

            Two little dots and a curved line appeared on your thumb.

* * *

 

 **Bruce Banner:** First thing said

            _“Hello, anybody here?”_ you spoke years before the big guy, when he was just a regular scientist, working to add to his collection of PHDs.

            _“Yeah, over here.”_ With no pain black ink sketched over both your wrists.

            The interaction was small; you, a professor’s assistant popping in to grab a forgotten file. He, one of said professor’s students preferring the lab over whatever fun his fellow classmates were doing.

            “I just need…these.” You said grabbing the file off the nearby table and went on your way. “Oh, okay, goodnight.”

            That was the extent of your interaction. You didn’t even say goodnight before disappearing into the hallway. It took a few hours before Bruce noticed his arm, for you it’d be the next morning.

            _Yeah, over here._ Who the fuck said that to you? You greet and talk to so many people at your job, who the hell said _yeah, over here_ to you?

            Bruce wasn’t doing any better, there were several people that came into the lab. All asking around the same type of question if the lab was empty or not. Both of you spending the rest of the week trying to remember.

            It wasn’t until a case of déjà vu that both of you genius dumbasses realized.

            “Hello, anybody in here?”

            “Yeah, over here.”

            The few second silence was the human equivalent of the dial-up noise.

* * *

 

 **T’challa:** Same heart beat

            Yours knees were bruised, hitting the tile floor before the rest of your body. Elbows were next, and then your face followed. Wavering before finishing sideways on the company kitchen floor.

            Most get used to these heart problems early on in life. When your Mate decides to run and jump and play while you have to go to bed, when you visit a haunted house and your mate is probably suffering at every turned corner. It was amazing that yours was still alive, since the start of your adult life, your heart has randomly skyrocketed so many times you had gotten used to it.

            Slowly down, though. Lowering until you were on your knees, that was something new. Hand to your heart your eyes roll back, hitting the ground.

            It was over a day before you woke up. Heart rate began racing again, Nurse looking between you and the monitor, hand on your wrist and asking; “What does your mate do?”

            “Piss me off."

* * *

  **Pietro Maximoff**

It’s two-forty-six in the morning, and you taste seafood.

            Your soulmate must weigh at least three hundred pounds at the rate in which he is eating. From hearty meats to thick pastas in the early morning, late night soups and midday sweets. Mostly candy and ice cream a few times when you’re trying to focus.

            Taking a test and strawberry candy is in the back of your throat. Middle of the work day and you’re drooling over some perfect, medium rare steak.

            You almost felt bad that all they were getting in return were Ramen noodles and microwave popcorn.

* * *

 

 **Peter Parker:** last thing said.

            _“I’ll finish it tonight.”_

            Something said hundreds of times a day in a high school. Students promising teachers and kids promising parents. Because of this Peter had spent years staying on his toes. Aunt May made it her duty to try and calm her nephew, telling him that “It was okay, that’s long _long_ off.” With his aunt’s kind words, he’s never worried about the writing on his wrist.

            _“See you tomorrow.”_ You had said, project in your arms.

            It would be later that night Peter looked at his wrist. _I’ll finish it tonight,_ he scrubs at it out of habit. Maybe the dark not-ink would scrub away, thus making his soulmate immortal.

            Aunt May sits forward on the couch when he comes out. Hands over mouth, she doesn’t respond to “what’s wrong?” Peter taking a seta next to her, quiet as the feed plays through the small apartment.

            A missed placed screw in a cars engines and the brakes still work, for a time. They give out during that brief dream like moment when traffic is moving. Panic and the driver can’t stop, panic and she veers to avoid pedestrians, head first into a sidewalk where citizens and shoppers had a few second window to run.

            Casualties were in the single digits, they’d grow as the night continued. With the driver clutching his head and sobbing the news caster could only say the cause was still under investigation.

            A memorial was already in the works at Midtown in your honor. 

* * *

 

 **Stephen Strange:** Mark where they touch you first

            Shifting colors from pink, to purple, to blue and into red play underneath your skin and stitches. The surgery wasn’t long, just a small one to remove a screw driver after a serious fall. It was enough that you had to be put under. Waking up hours later with a new glowing side.

            For years you’ve been convinced you’d never have soul-mate. No charcoal black spot on your skin anywhere. Friends with black wrist and dark knuckles, one boy had a perfect handprint plain on his cheek. You’d later find out he was to be slapped by the mother of his three children. You’d lie and tell the world that your mark was “somewhere private”. This only suggested that yours was going to be an unsavory character.

            The colors were faded under your skin. A sunset waiting to escape from the confines of meat and stitches. You had noticed them after waking from the surgery.

            “Who did the surgery?” You had asked the nurse when she popped her head in.

            “I don’t- I’ll find out.” He said quickly leaving the person holding their gown chest high.

            Only one of the surgeons had come out from the operating room with different colors. He was tall, all leg and arm with the right fingers and dark hair. Even back then he had a swagger confidence, one that had you second guessing the choices of whatever paired off soulmates.

* * *

 

 **Matt Murdock:** Danger meter

            8

            One inch below your dominate hand was an eight, written like a scar over the thickest vein. It shifted and changed throughout your life, starting at a one on the day of your birth and growing through the years.

            Never in your life would you think that number belonged to Matt. The blind man who is constantly bumping into things and hurting himself on air. Not many bothered in trying to find their mates, it was honestly almost impossible to tell. You were among those people, choosing your blind boy needing protection over those that fit the number.

            Your arm would be intertwined with his whenever out. Other hand at the constant ready to move or warn Matt about the dangers of the world. You had only ever glanced at Matt’s wrist once, a deep three on his pulse point. This was the average number for an unarmed adult with one or two self-defense classes. All this told you was that it’d be a real fight if his soul-mate ever showed up.

            You don’t see the smirk Matt always had when you take his arm. You sleep too deep to hear the shifting bed and any injury is excused, his smirk coming back as you lecture about he being more careful. You’re only mildly aware of his thumb during the quiet moments. His thumb sliding over the pulse point, slight pressure on the thickest vein, little figure eights over an number you don’t care about.

 

 


	3. Pet or guilt trip, your choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A home is not complete without a pet, or the second best option.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adopt, never buy

**Steve Rogers:**  

            After the first attack on New York gifts and presents started pilling in the lobby. For every member of the team at that point, even the ones who the public didn’t know the name of. Flowers, candy, clothes, jewelry, and sometimes straight up cash. Most were donated (save for the drawings, and that one necklace Nat was not going to let go of), and among those gifts were Lady.

            She was a little golden retriever puppy, pink bow around her neck. Security guard (a wall of a man) was cooing over her when you had walked in.

            Accepting her on Steve’s behalf she fit snuggly in the crook of one arm. The other holding the files. Help from fellow employees pressed elevator buttons and open doors kept Lady from touching the floor.

            You sat Lady down after seeing him in your office. Opening the door and nudging her inside with the toe of your pump. She goes right for the next available source of attention in the room, Steve kneeling to her level. She whines and goes for his face, tiny paws trying to get traction on his shirt collar and get to more of his face.

            “Careful of Cujo there,” You say, papers on the desk.

            “I don’t- okay, later.” Another movie added to the list. “Who is this?”

            “Our child,” You said, an arsenal of guilt ready to be used.

* * *

 

**Tony Stark:**

You’d need more hands to count how many times you’ve tried to get a pet. Tony has dodged every attempt with legit reason; cats knock things over, dogs are a lot of work and messy, birds? No, just no.

            This helped create the “Stark adoption day”, your personal project. Part passion project, part proof that you are more than just some trophy on Tony’s arm. Working with any shelter that will have you (which was a good majority) and setting up the meet and greet with dogs, cats and everything else in the park. Unsurprisingly it was maybe an hour before people started asking about Tony.

            It was a little deflating that people were more concerned about Tony than the animals. This was why you had gotten to Tony before he made his entrance. Making sure he’s not wearing anything that he wouldn’t want ruined.

            Adoption rates went through the roof. Hand picking the oldest, least desirable pets and putting them on the for-front. Tony holding a single eyed orange cat was still being cycled around, another where you had stolen his sunglasses for a brief moment and placed them on the bridge of an old saint-bernard. Both of them were adopted within the hour on that day.

* * *

**Thor:**

Thor had a horse, Thor had a big fucking horse.

            “What’cha got there?” A lame question with an obvious answer.

            He had this confidence that everyone should envy. Even when he doesn’t know where or what’s going on, he is still so sure. Just like now, holding black reins of this dun horse, tail black, mane matching.

            “Gail,” A simple name that he probably didn’t pick out. “She’s from the neighbors,” Neighbors who were over two miles away. “Come, come here.”

            His hand lays over yours, guiding you to stroke her neck.

            Whether you had experience with horses or not it didn’t matter. Gail was _Thor’s_ girl. A free ranged horse that wondered your property, coming into her little barn when the weather is less than pleasant.

            Thor gets this look on his face when brushing Gail. Every bit of stress, every forced laugh and smile is gone when he mounts her up. How could you say no to that?

* * *

 

**Bucky Barnes:**

            He hadn’t noticed you yet, sitting on the patio steps. The rented cottage was angled so the sun caught whatever rested on the porch. Usually it were local cats, this time they were joined by your man. Scratching his head at just the right angle, gleam of metal sending magic over the stone.

            He’s a tuxedo with white on only his back-left paw. Following the little white dots along the stone and up the wall. Both paws reaching out to slap at the light swishing side to side, following it left to right and back down to the porch. He was one of those outdoor cats, born in the wild. Scratched up ears and skinny body to match.

            Bucky raises his arms up and down for the sun to catch it. Kitty not having a care in the world no matter how close he got to the large man. Eventually attacking Bucky’s leg, pressing against it and bouncing back. Turning around and attacking again, maybe trying to confuse his prey.

            “Oh God, I love it.” Wanda had texted when you sent the video.

            Kitty was your host for the duration of the small vacation. Probably hanging around because of the food you had left out, letting out a jagged meow while trotting up whenever Bucky leaves the cabin.

            By the last day Kitty sat next to the bags stacked by the door. Staring, daring like he was daring you to try and leave without him.

* * *

 

**Natasha Romanoff:**

His name is Clint and he’s a bastard.

            Just like the man he was named after, the large African gray parrot hung out in the highest points of the apartment when alone.  Sometimes flying down to chill on the counter or couch when Nat was home, bouncing around the apartment while she would watch amused.

            He was adopted when Natasha officially moved in. Someone for you to be with while she was away. She really loved him, cooing at him when perched on her shoulder. Speaking in any language she knew as a greeting.

            Nat was Clint’s obvious favorite. The moment she was gone he would go into his corner. Waiting for you to be in sight before throwing an actual tantrum. There was a real chance that Clint was a cat reincarnated; going into your kitchen and knocking down the hung-up mugs, opening the cabinets and marching on the plates when he locks himself in. He’ll scream into the void between the couch and wall, grab at chips or snacks as your bringing them to your mouth. In those few minutes that he’s calm he’ll stay in front of you and just stare;

            _“Bring mom back, or I’ll tear this house apart.”_

            The worst? He can speak, but only in Russian. You hadn’t learned what he was saying, but he was likely cursing you out.

* * *

 

**Bruce Banner:**

She’s a street beggar that had a love for fried chicken. With a meow too high for a cat her age, not caring about dangers and stretching deep. Her front paws against your leg, as though she just _happens_ to be leaning against you.

            She does this every day when you pass. Accepting whatever sort of meaty substance you have at the moment. Seeming to glare when you had the audacity to offer a vegetable. At one point she followed after eating the treat, it was a spur of the moment decision to scoop from the old cat, her nails barely pressing into the cloth of your sleeves.

            It honestly took a few days before Bruce noticed Peppermint. She was an older cat, her all black coat had some shimmer of gray from age. Long haired and only showed her bratty side at the vet, or when she was being brushed.

            You really, _really_ should have told him about her when you first got home. He wasn’t home very often, a little house outside of a city. Even the mildest mannered of the Avengers was almost never home. This was among the excuses you had used for randomly adopting a cat.

            _“She was alone, like me.”_ You are a real asshole sometimes.

            Of course, you never blamed Bruce for having to be gone. You’ve spent years separated until the Avengers brought you back together, another few more when he disappeared into the sky. Using all that for a cat? She better be one amazing cat.   

* * *

 

 

**T’Challa:**

The man has battle rhinos, you’d think he could handle a French bulldog.

            Cosmo was a spoiled coworker’s birthday present. She lost interest in him after he passed his puppy phase. Her comments about taking him to the shelter had perked your ears, swooping in to save the little boy right behind her.

            He’s a real brat, you love him, but he’s the worst.

            You’ve just never realized how bad he was until T’challa insisted you visit for a longer period then expected. This was the journey of many firsts for Cosmo; first time on a plane, first time leaving country and the first time in Wakanda. First time meeting Okoye, who just watched this little black ball raise on his paws and stare at her on the plane seat. He growled deep in his throat, whining up at her and she just stared back. Eventually he just started barking, sitting on his butt and barking to the sky. Demanding she pick him up.

            She just smiles down at him, head on her hand. Seeing how long this boy was going to whine until he gave up. Cosmo was going the entire flight, Okoye would make a great mother.

            Shuri’s face lighting up was worth bringing the little booger along. It wasn’t that there were no small dogs in Wakanda, or that she didn’t know what a French bull dog was, it was just a breed that wasn’t necessary to adopt from the outside world. With both hands she holds him up to her face, more than willing to watch him while you met up with T’challa.

            His face looking at Cosmo was one of _“What did you bring into my home?”_

            And he kept that face every time Cosmo stared up at him with that old man wheezing. Or when Cosmo would take a sock from those placed out, running from the room with it like he had just robbed a bank. His worst offense is to have the audacity to squeeze his furry butt between you and T’chall at night. Too deep in sleep to hear the names your man was calling your second favorite boy.

* * *

  **Pietro Maximoff**

Nothing can cement a person to one place like a sleeping pet.

            They’ve been stuck to the same spot for the past hour. The black and white husky resting her head on his lap, one paw over the knee as a way to say “please, don’t move.”

            Pietro’s face was annoyed, but his dominate hand kept a good rhythm of petting Savannah’s head. The other flicked through channels, occasionally looking your way. Maybe to see what you were doing (still on the laptop), maybe to look for help. Not that you’d ever mess with your copper and white colored princess.

            She would nip at your legs, howl and scream when the food would take too long. Keeping Pietro wrapped around her paw whenever he left the house. Growling low in her throat when he’d tell her no. She would do this until he grabbed her leash, muttering in his mother language as she wiggled with excitement.

* * *

 

**Peter Parker:**

            Peter held the little guy way too close to his face. Looking at the white and fawn spotted bunny in his hands, inspecting him as though he might not have been an actual rabbit. In his defense Happy was cute little guy.

            It was like a divorce from a marriage that never happened. Happy was a plan that took weeks in the making. Infecting each other with the Bun disease after watching one too many “how to care for your rabbit” videos in the wee hours of the morning. He spent most his life at your place, taking him Peter’s a few times a week during “Dates”.

            It wasn’t that Aunt May had explicably said no, she just gestured around the apartment. “We barely fit in here.” The woman was immune to the bunny charms, still more than willing to hold him, though. Making kissy noises and cooing.

            This was Happy’s life now. Seeing his Daddy every “date” night. The two of your sitting across from each other on the floor, legs stretching out for your feet to be flat against each other. Creating a tiny carrel for Happy to choose which parent he will be cuddled by.

* * *

 

**Stephen Strange:**

It wasn’t so much Stephen had said no that Wong did. He had the look of a man who had seen the effects of cats on old books and birds in wide open areas. Dogs don’t seem to be on the list of preferred pets for those working in mystic arts. They’re too good for them, anyway.

            “It’s good karma,” You had said, door chiming when opened.

            “Karma’s not real, Sweetie,” The nickname of condescension.

            “You’re fucking attitude is. Hi, Marisa.”

            There is probably a reason dogs aren’t chosen for mystic arts. They’re too much of a distraction, spending hours with these girls and boys. Filling bowls, washing cages and scrubbing puppies cleaned the soul.

            Stephen had stood off to the side at first. One of those poor kids whose parents had never let him have a real pet (maybe a fish, but you can’t pet a fish). Slowly getting more accommodated with the dogs getting too excited around him. Then he met Beorn, the adult male Newfoundland who was getting on in age.

            Because of his age he wasn’t the first option for adoption, a mass of black hair laying in his cage. Beorn nudged against his hand, a deep noise at the back of his throat that said, _“I’m old and deserve pets. Get to it, youngster.”_

Stephen’s hands disappeared into the black mass. Reaching for miles before he found the body and Beorn groaned at the attention. Stephen fell in love with him at that moment. Going with you to the shelter and just so happen to wander towards Beorn. Taking credit for volunteering while he only stays with this old bear.

            “I want him,” He one day admitted on the way home.

            “Talk to your work-husband.”

* * *

 

**Matt Murdock:**

“I don’t need a service dog,” He says.

            “I’ll pay for it.” You says.

            “Sweetie, Angel, no.” The double pet name. It’s on now.

            “Come, how’d you get that busted lip?”

            _Thug two was quieter than thug one_

“Walked into a door.” He says.

            “And your ribs?”

            _Big crow-bar, bigger guy_

“Went hard into a table.”

            “You know what can keep you from doing that? A service animal.” Beers clink between your fingers while walking into the room.

            “I have you for that.” He says.

            “Wow,” You keep the bottle from his hands. Setting it on the coffee table instead.

            “I didn’t mean that,” He reaches for the bottle. Missing by a few inches, leaning forward and pushing it gently into his hands. “I think the cane says I’m blind enough. I don’t have time for it either.”

            “Dogs are suffering you know,” a drink of beer. You’re planning something. “And their shelter is underfunded.”

            There it is; his little, bleeding heart, angel. “What do they need?”

            “Lawyer on retainer, paperwork and stuff. “Another drink, a louder gulp. You hardly ever asked for anything, let alone a legal favor. “All your clients with them will be innocent. Ya know?”

            Matt nods, “Foggy’ll love it.”


	4. Generation Gap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Age is a social construct" -Annoying Guy in my poetry class

**Steve Rogers:**     


            Your situation was a difficult one; on one hand you were just a junior member of the Avenger’s legal defense (half step higher than an intern), and your clearance shouldn’t be more than the first floor and no deeper than the offices. On the other hand, you were the partner to one of the OG Avengers, a class that had no restrictions.

            This was why you couldn’t really get mad at security when they would direct you towards the intern spaces. Nor could you yell at them when they’d refuse you entry to where your man had agreed to meet.

            This also spread rumors throughout the office about your “relationship”. How else could someone your age get this far if you weren’t getting bruised knees from it? Very few would believe that it was your skills and work ethic that took you ahead of the pack. If it were high school you would be eating lunch in the bathroom stall instead of your office desk.

* * *

**Tony Stark:**

The word “cradle robber” was thrown around in magazines and gossip sites. Along side were things like “gold digger”, “silver fox” and even “pedophile”. A statement that was swiftly met with legal action.

            It might have been better if you had just come out about your relationship. Speculation of the relationship started when some young woman started hanging around Stark business without reason. The same reaction started when Peter became an “intern”, but they didn’t have a leaked photo of a rooftop kiss.

            “We should take this as a challenge,” You had said one evening. Another _scandalous_ claim of your rise from broke waitress to the most successful sugar baby in North America. “All this crap, you know?”

            “I don’t like challenges unless I get a big prize at the end.” Tony’s voice comes from somewhere under his desk. From your angle all you can see is the jean legs and white socks sticking out from under the metal.

            “My happiness would be a big prize,” You say. “New bracelet would be a big prize.”

* * *

**Thor:**

It’s both a blessing and curse that Thor cared almost nothing about Midgard gossip.

            On one hand, while you tried to teach him about computers, he’d never look anywhere but you. This huge man who looked to be over ten years your senior sitting at your desk, slowly typing and doing his best. Over his shoulder and there were your co-workers, pretending not to be watching him. Pretending not to whisper to each other. 

            First job a few months right out of college and you already had a new name.

            “The newer model,” that was fine.

            Or it was the “dumber version,” that one, yeah, that one hurt.

            You were no Jane Foster, in truth, you would never be able to compete with her. These comments never went farther than your office. Whether it was that your co-workers didn’t bother to try or magazines didn’t care about what some office monkey’s had to say.

            You’d rant and rave to your man, but he never seemed bothered.

* * *

**Bucky Barnes:**

It was Bucky’s choice to stay more on the down low, outright refusing anything even mildly promotional. He was as he was before the Avengers, a rumor.

            Because of this it was up to you whether anyone knew about the relationship.

            Nobody seemed to believe you about it: Family believing it was just to get them off your back (partly yes), friends just finding it an impossible idea that you’d even meet someone like Bucky.

            Not wanting to ruin his privacy you never pushed the matter on those you knew. Even if your teeth would grind when they’d claim your pictures were photo shopped.

* * *

**Natasha Romanoff:**

            Everyone at your college knew what Nat was the moment her car rolled up.

            A rare, and elusive, sugar mama.

            Although you were months into the relationship it was only then that you mentioned it to her. Natasha was a great liar, if she wanted you’d never know a true thing from her. But when you bring this up, with a little laugh, she immediately avoids eye contact. Her lips sucking in a tiny smile at the not-accusation.

            It never occurred to you just how much income Nat actually had. From returned bounties to hush agreements, she had enough to never even look a price tag. Not that she ever gave an impression of caring about designer and overly expensive things, the most were some name brand make up and dresses hardly worn.

            The rest went to you, without you ever really knowing. Although Nat wouldn’t lie about important things, there was never any truth to the prices of things. That shirt that just so _happens_ to be your perfect size and favorite color? That was a friend’s who had left it and wouldn’t want it back. That restaurant where you had to wear a “borrowed” dress she’d never ask to give back? Nat had a coupon. Those earrings she hands you after getting in the car? She found them in the bottom of her purse, weren’t her style, and still in their little box but the price tag mysteriously gone.

            Some wanted power over others to see the fear in their eyes. Nat wanted power over the joy in your eyes, to be able to say, “they’re just going to be thrown away” and see the awe you’re trying to hide while running your thumb over the jewels.

            In the end she got a feeling of purpose and you got bed sheets that’d make angels cry.

* * *

**Bruce Banner:**

            “Tell your daughter to slow on the caffeine.” The barista says.

            Admittedly, you were drinking it a little fast. The few shots of expresso to make up for the long night both had with paperwork. The expensive drink threatened to spew right from your nose. Instead you coughed and coughed, trying to hide the laugh that’d cause Bruce to make that face.

            It was too late for that. Bruce turned from the counter and walked quickly to the small corner table you had claimed. He had that face, the one where he was upset but still found it a little funny, but not wanting to admit it out loud.

            “Stop it,” he says, taking a drink as though that’d stop your giggles.

            “Yes, Dad,” You say.

            “Please, don’t.”

            “Yes, Daddy?”

            “We should see other people.”

* * *

            **T’Challa:**

You weren’t the first to be called into HR. Not the first to be called in because of an “inappropriate relationship”. And certainly not the first cute little (former) intern whose had relations with a foreign dignitary. 

            HR lady was not messing around with this. Waiting for you to take a seat before instructing you to shut the door. A power move that you allowed her to have.

            “So, I don’t-I’m not big on office gossip,” She starts, hands in a prayer position. “but there has been talk about your relationship with the dignitaries from Wakanda.”

            There it was, you were specifically assigned to the dignitaries as a small spy. None of your higher ups ever mentioned that the young woman in the corner knew everything they were saying, you weren’t that good of a spy, it would seem. More than once accidently making eye contact with the guards and even T’challa himself. That was what led to your situation now.

            “I understand, you’re new, you wanna see the world and he’s, yeah, he’s something interesting. But don’t you think you’re taking your little crush a little too far?” She says this as if your age gap isn’t anymore than five years.

            “Well, out of context I understand, how you see it that way.” You had to bite your tongue to keep from adding ‘but he started it’.

            Work in foreign affairs had taught you how to say “you don’t know shit” in polite talk.

            “So, what can we do about this?” She asks. This woman might have been a kindergarten teacher in a past life. Talking in that way where she already had an answer but wanted to watch her victim struggle.

            You’re back in middle school. Just shrugging your shoulders in the hopes that this conversation with an authority figure would hurry up.

            “This is your first warning,” she says, still ‘seeing things in the wrong context’. “If your little crush goes any farther, attention going to be taken.”

            You were too valuable to cut right away. Calling you in for the second warning a week later.

* * *

            **Pietro Maximoff:**

            His long legs took up the entirety of your backseat. Back against the old seat, legs stretching towards the ceiling, feet almost flat. This was only done because you had yelled at him more than once about feet on the windows.

            This was your tradition for the last semester of your Senior year. Bell rings and there stands Pietro at the gate. Relationship the result of a state-wide school meet with Avengers, and a friend’s dare to plant a kiss on Pietro’s cheek during the picture. That picture was still framed in in both your rooms.

            You can still remember her eyebrow shooting up to her hair-line when Pietro had led you into the kitchen. You probably should have worn something more grown up; walking in there with your tennis-shoes and backpack on one shoulder.

            In the end Wanda was the only one that seemed to approve of your relationship, who was she to judge anyway? Her partner was a robot younger than you. The rest though;

            “Are you in class with Peter?” Steve asks. The nicer of the questions coming your way.  

* * *

**Peter Parker:**

May’s interrogation happened the moment the door opened. Looking up and down at the _woman_ here to pick up her nephew. Inviting you inside, sitting you on the couch and starting the questions. Whether Peter even knew you were there or not was up in the air.

            You were a senior, a dumb senior. One that needed a freshman to help you with math, one that you got made fun of for it and for the crush on said freshman. Also, one that stopped caring when Peter would give you _that_ look. The one he didn’t think you see, the one he makes when you’re staring down to the math problem or looking towards something away form him.

            Now he looks from the crack of his door. Opened just enough that one eye looks into the room. You can see him trying to decide; Stay in room and hope Aunt May doesn’t kick you out or swing open the open, grab your hand and make a great escape.

            He didn’t really get a choice in the matter. After being asked about your age, your grade, how long you’ve had your license and your “intentions” with Peter. You tilted so Peter would see your entire face. Getting your look of “help me” and finally opening the door.

            The plan didn’t work as you thought it would. Peter being dragged into the interrogation right along side you. Aunt May turning your date twenty minutes late with advice about relationships, responsibility and even a touch of protection. That she didn’t pull out a power point and a ruler was a miracle.

* * *

**Stephen Strange:**

            You met Dr. Handsome back when he was just handsome intern. Little baby surgeons making rounds through a learning hospital, one of their stops was your room.

            It was doubtful that he remembers the first time you met. Barely in your freshman year and here comes in a crowd of men and women. Looking you over like an art piece, or an animal in a zoo, whichever sounds better. Laying back in your bed; leg in a sling and a story of jumping down the stairs you were sure to exaggerate later.

            You were too young for there to be even a chance at a relationship. That didn’t stop you from referring to him as the “Dr. Handsome,” while high from painkillers. Mortification after hearing Stephen being mocked for it kept you from talking to him again during his visit.

            Fast forward a few years and you’re back in a hospital. The designated biker chick showing up randomly to serve court papers. It became an art to avoid any questions from the nurse or people you pass, “visiting a sick Nan”, “My boyfriend got hurt, he’s in this wing”, “What do you mean I need a visitor’s pass?”

            Dr. Handsome was in one of those wings. The recognition verified after you blurt out, “Dr. Handsome, haven’t seen you in a while.”

* * *

**Matt Murdock:**

          Foggy’s face when you pecked Matt’s lips on the way out was something else.

            Foggy knew you longer than Matt had, your parents were friends. He used to watch you when you were little, you would borrow money from him and promise to pay him back. You never did.

            So, in the end, it was his fault you even met Matt.

            Karen didn’t really care. Compared to his past relationships and his nightlife, a sweet little girl who just had her first drink would be something good for him. She was also your unofficial boss as the office manager. A few ignorant individuals referred to you as “the secretary’s secretary”, you couldn’t choreography how fast all four of you would correct them.   

            The several weeks you’ve been the new secretary it never occurred to you that the relationship even was a secret from Foggy. You’d arrive at different times but usually leave together. When you didn’t leave together you’d kiss him goodbye or he’d plant softly on your cheek. It just seemed that Foggy was never looking at you when this happened.


	5. Rainbow, a Peter Parker Special Feature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A soulmate AU where first time you touch them you see color.   
> Featuring Peter Parker

Night was the worst in this world. Every shade of white would grow steadily darker around you. The universe’s way of telling you to get inside. That danger is coming, and the lighting is here to make it so much worse.

            This danger was a drunk driver; a jackass who couldn’t wait for an uber and didn’t want a taxi. All you can remember from that situation were two massive eyes cutting through the night. T-boning you from the street, through the guard rail and into the water. Where that stupid truck is while you’re starting to sink, you didn’t know.

            Entirety of your legs are gone by this point. Your brain was going into overdrive; it knew that you were in trouble, knew that you had to get out but didn’t know how.

            Both hands grip your seatbelt, ripping it like a child who didn’t want to go to school. Cold was soaking towards your belly button when your thumb finally presses on the release button.

            Enough movies and TV taught you that opening your driver door wouldn’t work, water pressure keeping it in place. With strength you didn’t know you had both hands grab the driver and passenger seat. Foot on the radio, other on the center console you pull yourself in a small but hard climb.

            Water is black instead of gray at night. A monster growing faster than you can climb, already taking over your legs again. Hands, flat to the back-glass window, press against the glass.

            _Thud_

Weight shook the car. Drawing your attention through the window at the squatting person on your trunk. Decked in faded gray and white lines, massive white eyes staring through the window without ever blinking.

            Their hands are waving is a backup motion. Their jaw moving up and down, no noise able to penetrate the glass. It’d be unlikely that you would be able to hear over your own pounding heart and the blood in your ears.

            The black monster is in your ears in order to push back far enough. It’s past your nose when the glass explodes into the monster. World completely black as your eyes close, protecting against the assault not directed at you.

            Their grip is strong, under your arm pits, pulling you from the cold monster. One arm going under your knees, the other around your back. Black monster gone the, angry, cold air taking it’s place over most of your body. The small part that wasn’t shivering was pressed into wiry muscle.

            Red

            It will be your favorite color, the most beautiful color. Shown faded in the dark but just as perfect. Red with black lines in a pattern you couldn’t fully see.

            The eyes were still big, still very white and were still staring right at you. Even that white wasn’t the same as the world’s old white. There were details, the teeniest tiniest little lines competing against those across the shoulders and chest that held you up. Soulmate nothing but a rainbow while others were stuck with the same view of just skin in the varying shades.

            “Spider-man! What you doing?” Some, stupid, concerned citizen yells from the safety of the sidewalk.

            By this point the black monster (which was now just the dark monster) had reached your soulmate’s ankles. Air was the enemy with a quick jump. World black once more when your eyes close to hide from the change in pressure.

            Your feet touch the sidewalk and the new world is open to you once again.

            Like every interaction with him you had heard of he shot a strand over his shoulder. Spider-man, friendly neighborhood and your one, your only soul-mate. He didn’t say anything. Unless, you count _“Uhhh…”_ as a word.

            Blue, red and white disappear into the city jungle. Leaving you in this whole new world of colors in dark shades.

 

            For almost a week you became a princess, the copyrighted kind that annoy almost any in the vicinity. Fruits were bright, and the grass came in more shades than a crayon box. Art galleries had purpose now. The sky was blue and would burst into colors at dawn and dusk. Every day there was a new color or shade to experience. Boy, do your friends fucking hate you.

            You could only describe it as jealousy. Your friends had yet to find their own soulmates, so it’d be sometime before they’d ever see the things you did. If they ever found them.

            Just like a copyrighted princess the only one that’d ever understand is your prince. A man (based solely on his title) you’d had only ever seen from a distance. Not that any of your friends even believed you. Assuming that your soulmate was probably much older than you, or maybe ugly, or it was somebody you just didn’t want the world to know about. This happened quiet often as it wasn’t social expected that you spend the rest of your life with your soulmate. Millions around the world with brush hands in a crowded place, see the beauty of the sky, but never get to see their mate.

            This was the situation your friends assumed you were in. Embarrassed that you missed them and making up a story about a superhero.

            The only one who even humored you was Michelle. Looking at you with that tired expression you’ve come to realize is just her face. She asked what happened, how you’re doing and whether or not you actually cared or if society was ordering you to care. When you knew that it was a genuine want to meet him she gave the best, or worst suggestion ever.

            “You could jump off a high place and hope he catches you.”

            “And if he doesn’t then I don’t have to worry about it anymore.”

            Now morbid humor with your friends is one thing, standing on the edge of a massive building was another. It’s wasn’t the tallest building in the city, not even close, but it was still several stories. Thirty-five bucks to a maintenance guy just to look over your shoes and down to your potential death.

            Without any indication of your prince being anywhere nearby a foot sticks out. Strength of your leg so much weaker than usual. To much weight forward and your choice will be made for you. Bring that foot back, staring a few seconds and the other sticks out. Same feeling, same situation and your stomach is not settling even with both feet flat on the roof. A several minute game of hooky pokey that you shouldn’t be playing in the first place.

            “No, no don’t!”

            Your weight become unbalanced forward from the sudden second person. Arms shooting out like a bird, waving, wanting to take flight. Your left was grabbed and pulled back. A tiny rescue, perfect for a lifetime movie that’d you could’ve (should’ve) saved yourself from.

            You’d have to thank Michelle for the idea, you’d then have to thank your fear for not going all the way through with it.

            He’s shorter than you remember, the red just as prominent and black lines creative. With more distance between you than before you saw the blue; down his sides and around the thighs. You’ve seen other blues, like the skies or in flowers. His was darker, serious and artificial looking. Not a color you’d find naturally in the city, a color all his own.

            “Can you see, can see everything?” A sudden question. Like asking an unknown relative about getting a ride home. Yeah, you were supposed to know them, probably supposed to trust them, even. But you still didn’t know them.

             “Yeah, your hair it’s…” He trails off slightly as he describes it.

            Nobody you knew had ever described your hair as he did. People have told you the color before in simple words.  Everyone knew about colors, about the concept. Collectively drooling over the stories those who had met their mates and just the insanity of colors.

            “I like your suit,” This had become something of an awkward date. Really hoping at this moment that he was in the same age range as you.

            His body language was like he’s surprised you noticed it. Looking down to be sure he’s seeing the same thing you are.

            “Thank you. I, yeah, I didn’t make it. I helped, though. I got the-I made the prototype.” He clears his throat, as nervous as you are. “I like your shoes.”

            “They were on sale, my mom got them.” _What the fuck are you saying?_

            “Who are you?” A question that was blunt, very blunt that makes his stop his small movements.

            You shouldn’t have asked. Not this soon at least, you barely knew him.

            His hand stutters slightly while reaching for the top of his mask. Gloves matching the colors in the slow motion grip the top. Although tight he grabbed it easy, pulling to show the squarish jaw and soft skin.

            You knew this guy, son of a bitch you knew this guy. He was one of hundreds you would see throughout the school. One of many white boys talking excitably in the busy school hallways. Same way of holding his backpack, same clothing choice, and same hair tone. The only way he was different from the others was the back. The part of him you stare at every afternoon before the bell rings and you’re released into the world. At the ringing of that bell his back would be gone, packing several seconds before the bell rung. Only way you knew this was by the teacher’s constant; “Bell hasn’t rung yet, Mr. Parker.”

            _Peter. Peter Parker._

Yeah, you knew this guy more than the first few seconds of thought suggested. Last week your desks were facing each other with a third person who didn’t matter. Your hands working inches from each other for almost an hour and never touching. What if you had in that moment? Accidentally bumping into his knuckles and suddenly everything is new, and his eyes are as wide as the moon. How long would it be before he’d admit to being the Spider-man? Would he even stay with you after the touch at such a young age and with a practical stranger?

            He holding the mask in front of you with both hands. Not looking you in the eye as though he was in trouble with a parent.

            “Do a flip,” You say after a few seconds of loading.

            He now makes eye contact with you, confusion and then a small smile. “What?”

            “Do a flip. If you are spider-man you can a do a flip.” Both hands gesture for him to go ahead. “Do it.”

            It’s annoying how effortlessly he can do it. A quick blur of red and blue in the afternoon light, complete with a _Fwilp_ noise and landing in the same spot. He’s smiling now, a genuine smile that only grows while you clap for his achievement.

            “I would have laughed so hard if you landed on your face,” Your laugh is bubbling up just from your imagination.

            Peter’s lips press together, himself trying not to laugh. “I did before, I went right into a wall.”

            “No! Are you okay?”

            The stories Peter gives fill in several gaps throughout the time you ‘kinda’ knew him. The bruises on his face, his sudden ability to show those big ass lab table without a grunt, why he started running from the classroom at the end of the day.

            He talks about everything he had gone through the past year or so. All of the muggers he had stopped, car crashes and minor league rescues. The kinda things that got him YouTube videos instead of news coverage. Then he talks about the Avengers, with Mr. Stark and the goodies he could build with those resources.

            “So, your internship is just…this?” You ask with a gesture to his suit.

            By this point one leg dangles over the building’s edge. Swaying back and forth in tandamine with both of his. Stradling the barrier between the building and open air, obvious which one of you was more comfortable with heights than the other.

            “Yeah, I was doing this before Mr. Stark, now it’s just official. Now it’s a job.” He explains.

            “You’re getting paid for this?”          

            “No, nah, I get the suit, though. And I get the experience.”

            “That’s not a job then.”

            “It’s not how jobs work?”

            “That’s not how jobs work.”

            He seems actually disappointed by that. Taking the moment of silence to look straight ahead. Although it’d still be a few hours before the sun would set, you had seen the same view before from a hundred different angles but there were still several hundred to go with these new eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small apology for making Peter suffer in the first two installments. I'm still gonna make him suffer, because it's fun, but I feel bad about putting you through it.


	6. Not yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mind control is a serious threat in a world with aliens, god and helmet defying hair.  
> No one is safe from it, not even you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also known as the section with non-stop cliff hangers because I don't know how to end these things.   
> Also warning for attempted murdered and reused plots.

**Steve Rogers:**    

            Entire situation starting some minutes ago and ending in slow motion half a lifetime later. Siren blares like a whale on helium and twenty times faster. Four sets of hands slapping to their pairing ears in the small all glass office room.

            Siren bleeds between your fingers and into your brain. Filling it like black water in a coffee mug until it spills all the way over. It drips from your ears and onto your hand, taking control. Becoming the tendons, bones and muscles that go to the service pistol on the small of your back.

            There are too many reasons to explain why you were taken compared to the other three in the room. Maybe because you were standing and therefore closer to the speakers, or you just didn’t cover your ears well enough and fell victim to it, or you could have been the original target all along. No matter the reason, your Glock 7m was in your grip and pointed before any security outside the office could react.

            Between your three coworkers two rounds left the clip. Metal destroyed seconds after shattering glass you didn’t blink at. Red, white and blue Vibranium ripping through whatever is between it’s path to the back wall.

            Gun ripped from your grip you can expect a few broken fingers. Owner of the savior shield is there after the first security.

            “Oh, oh no…” Shock was setting in, arms stuck in the slightly bent position.

            The noise escaped from the office. Hands hitting ears and shots hit the corner speakers. Black machines and wires joining in the broken glass and small splats of blood. Raining down on your coworkers still struggling for breath.

            Arms are around you from behind, over your forearms and towards your center. A half-hug, half- hold pulling you into the solid body behind you.

            You weren’t Steve’s first loved one that was the victim of mind control. Bucky forcing him to learn that, in the moment of hesitation, is when he’d have to take control. Practically carrying you out of the office, past medics running in and refusing to let go. Sending a look to anyone who dared give an indication of taking you away.

            “You’re okay, it’s not your fault.” Whispering your name like a mantra, just so you wouldn’t forget it.

* * *

 

**Tony Stark:**

You can count on your hand the amount of times you’ve been in a Stark suit. The first time you just wanted to see what it was like, being told immediately to get out when you asked why the heels were necessary. Second during a home invasion; one moment your looking around the corner and the next your covered in metal and padding.

            This time you weren’t aware of the suit until you were standing before it. Brief memories of your bare feet slapping through the workshop. Breaking the unspoken rule of wearing shoes in work shop, stepping right onto dead wires and pieces of junk that you were lucky didn’t cut through the bottom of your foot.

            That entire day would be remembered best as “blurry”. Bed, breakfast, Tony, and then you’re at the spa. Piper is there but you were too focused on some article about you to notice any of the details. It’s why you didn’t think much when your usual masseuse wasn’t the same as regular. And then there are the smallest of bells and suddenly…Bed. 

            Now you stood in front of a prototype from some years ago. Made without a reason in mind and just for something to distract Tony when sleep was impossible. Just slightly more upgraded then it’s predecessor; a wee bit faster and just a wee bit stronger. By this point in time it was practically obsolete. Unlikely your lover would notice it was gone.

            None of the other times you’ve been in a suit you had flown it outside. Just stood in it stationary, during the home invasion it returned to the work shop, but that was quick hovering. Without practice it was an extreme case of stomach dropping, vertigo and just a scream inducing roller coaster. Everything was calm from your angle, just a journey you weren’t prepared to go to on but, hey, there you were.

            “Ma’am, I don’t think Boss is gonna like this.” FRIDAY says next to your ear.

            “It’s fine,” Because it was fine. Everything was fine.

            “He’s calling now,” FRIDAY says. “Putting him on the line.”

            “That’s fine,”

            “Hey there, Sweetheart, what ya doing?” It’s not common that you were the one in trouble while Tony acted as the voice of reason. It never seemed to be a position he was comfortable with.

            “I don’t know,”

            “Looks like you’re out for-.” He’s cut off by the closest building.

            There was this general assumption that you already knew how to fly the suit. Not even mildly interesting enough to have the need of it and never bothered to really play with them. With your body going into auto pilot there was little chance you’d make it so far.

            Starting high in the sky and starting a slow descent over the course of a few minutes. By the time you got out of the city you two stories from the ground. Clipping the side of a two-story house, spinning like a slapped top past the road way and into some poor families backyard.

            The poor husband of the house was nudged (Shoved) awake by the wife. Both hands shoving his forearm, practically out of the bed. A storm of “Did you hear that?” “What was it?” “Go check” “Neil, go check.” She asks with each shove to emphasize her distress. She’s gone by the time he wakes fully, door to the kid’s room open and her standing post incase the danger gets past him.

            Bat in hand he stomps through the house. Hoping that the sound of a large, tired and annoyed father would scare off anything that might have gotten into the house. Instead there is nothing, completely dark and empty house with only the squeaking of upstairs floorboards from wife-y and child shifting their weight.

            Next stop, outside. Where there was a new crater that was absolutely not there before.

            A lot of weird stuff has been happening within the last few years. From aliens to gods that were no longer prayed to, that a suit of hard metal was imbedded into his yard only made sense. From his position above the suit he could hear the muffled screaming from inside.

            Some point between the house, spinning and the back-yard crash you woke fully. Impact and alarm system working together. One of the many security measures includes a complete shut down of all systems when landed. Only when close enough to the ground so there weren’t too many injuries or death from the system. Instead just entrapping the thief in the shell, keeping their body trapped under the metal until each piece is removed by outside help.

            Between the dark blue and the stars there is a head. Designated husband making the (arguably stupid) decision to take hold of the face mask. Although shut down, the hiss was still present from the change of air. Both of you blinking to each other, just as equally confused.

            “Where am I?” The first of many questions you would bombard this guy with.

* * *

 

                        **Thor:**

A hand is in your hair and it’s not his.  

            Asshole’s yell of “EVERYBODY OUT” was still rattling the windows. Whatever was in those claws pricking the back of your neck was effective at keeping you calm. Your work buddy being the last person to leave, concerned by your lack of effort to escape.

            Hopefully you were in a different head space. Staring towards one of the many windows like your favorite show was on. Arm around your shoulders, holding your face with a possessive thumb rubbing your jaw line. His free hand was in your mess of hair, distantly there was tugging but you couldn’t place it.

            The world you were dragged into was one of both magic and medicinal. Where the prettiest fucking thing in this world was suddenly a bird on the branch outside the window. Everything else in the world was your peripheral vision that didn’t matter. The equivalent of a bus passing by that’d you never see again.

            Thor had this way of being a room, as though the colors were all just drawn towards him. Even to those that didn’t initially believe in other realms, or were still in denial about it, would give at least a glance to him. It wasn’t because of the look but just his aura that was more mass then the rest of the humans. Other Asgardians had this same presence, Loki seemed to be too well aware of it.

            Although everything in the world was static you knew the feeling of Thor the moment he came into your space. Even those it wasn’t Thor’s fingers in your hair you still hummed just from the presence of your man. Unaware of how so much more pissed this made him.

            The static is so much louder than before. Volume raising and lowering at random, yet your little birdie still hung around on the branch. Poking at his little feathers and hoping side to side. His head twitches at your direction and hops a little, silent tweets. Going _‘Sup?’_

Through the static and the magic world, a whisper is said somewhere both above and behind you head. **“Walk”** it commands. A wonderful idea, one that has your legs moving without a single worry.

            Your little birdie has stopped messing with his feathers. Tilting his head left, right and tweeting loudly this time. Cute little chirps to full on screaming as you get closer. _‘What are you doing?’_ he screams but you didn’t speak bird. When you don’t respond he hops from the branch. Flying upwards and leaving a shaking stretch of wood in its place.

            Finally, the static stopped when the floor did. Swimming in air through the world, air as the water in the deep end of a bottomless pool. Arms stretching out, trying to reach through the entirety of the “water” you were swimming through.

            Your relief is incredibly brief. Static coming back harder than before, like someone throwing a brick into the pool you were swimming in. This came in the form of a log of an arm slamming into your back and being hit chest first into, what can only be described as, a bag of bricks.

            It pulls you from the pool, staring into blue eyes and a glass building behind them.

            Although pulled from the pool you are still soaking wet. Static making the blue eyes into a nothing leading into the more nothing behind him. Draining and flooding at the same time until all you saw was white.

* * *

 

**Bucky Barnes:**

            You’d never be able to take Bucky in a fight, even in play he’d always end up on top.

            This time, with his hands holding your wrists high, you were laughing under him, claiming he had an unfair advantage and pressing against him to roll him off. No, you were snarling at him. Even with the impossible metal grip around your wrist you refused to drop the offending knife.

            Before this dinner was lovely, a rooftop restaurant rented out as a favor from Stark. Appetizers were some small fishes deep fried served with sauces. Although delicious, and you were having a genuine good time, the sting of a headache was appearing at the base of your skull. Waving off Bucky’s concern, blaming it on a withdrawal symptom of caffeine.

            With the appetizers taken away and an expresso sat down you laughed and talked. Hand sometimes going to the back of your head. Pressure and your little bitter friend doing next to nothing to help with the pain.

            Main course is set, and your steak knife had become _extremely_ fascinating.

            Your waiter dropped the pitcher of water in fear when your suddenly stood. Chair hitting the floor behind you, table flying next.

            Bucky caught on the downward thrust. Pulling your wrist high as your eyes were almost completely vacant. Not focusing on anything but eyes wide open. He knew that look too intimately.

            Your free hand curled into a fist. Pressing into his face which he also grabbed and held. With little experience fighting your legs tried to kick at his crotch and legs, looking for more damage then to escape his hands.

            Heels were such a good idea at the beginning of the night. Small enough you’d trip on a street grate but a wonderful excuse to have to lean against him in walking up the stairs. Now they were being dragged off your feet, slipping from the foot. Leaving attached by the strap around your ankle while Bucky pulls you towards the restaurant. A waltz neither of you wanted to dance to.

            With the tangled shoes and a misplaced step your legs give out. Bucky went with you, leg on either side of your hips, hands keeping yours pressed to your chest. This was how your wrestling matches would end. Pinned to the ground, Bucky demanding you beg for mercy before you get a kiss. This time you bite towards his face like a feral dog.

            It takes the waiter several seconds of gob smacked staring before calling the emergency line.

* * *

 

**Natasha Romanoff:**

          A torture in the worst kind. It would take roughly eight regular steps to make it from the bedside to the kitchen counter. Your back was to her, moonlight from the window to stare to showing the colors of your pajamas and the black gun lifting against your head.

            Natasha cuts those eight steps down to six. A few seconds full of slapping bare feet and a silent plea to make it in time. At the end of those seconds an unholy bang rips from the barrel and into your ceiling. Two strong but slim hands hold your hand above your head and straight into the black dot in the ceiling.

            Upstairs neighbor have a beagle. A decently behaved dog that started howling at the top of his little lungs. Startled by the shot that thankfully missed anyone in the building and doing what he can to protect his family.

            Millions around the state collectively cry out with the beagle upstairs. Shots, stabs and jumps happening only seconds before you wake in fear. Blood covering miles of the state when you collapse into Nat’s arms. Unable to move, so confused from a nightmare you hadn’t woken from and couldn’t run away.

            Nat didn’t say anything, letting your weight take both of you down to the floor. Dragging you into her lap and s _hhh-shhh_ shushing you while you tried to understand.

* * *

 

**Bruce Banner:**

            It wasn’t insulting to say that not a lot of people noticed you. Even before the big guy you were always a step behind and to the right of Bruce. In meetings, in pictures and in lab. Still you were the backbone for Bruce’s every day. There wasn’t an email, text, or phone call that didn’t go by you. The only time this wasn’t the case was during his self-imposed exile, the glare you gave when reunited…oh boy.

            This was why the assault was both confusing and made perfect sense. A seemingly simple mugging that ended with your purse gone and more than one cut covering neck and arms. It never occurred to anyone you’d need extra security. People would recognize Bruce before you.

            No cameras, wearing masks and average height, average build. It would take time to find them. Not that it’d be that hard to cancel some cards and your lipstick could be picked up on the way home. Eventually you just forgot about it, but started the habit leaving the compound with at least someone.

            The _click-click-click_ of your fingers flying through the keyboard suddenly stopped. Bruce didn’t look up as the smaller click of your mouse would follow after. Your usual pattern was gone as you rifled through things without reason. Bruce watched from over his glasses, still poised at his microscope.

            Your desk was a second home. Not a drawer on it that you didn’t know the exact contents of.

            “Looking for something?” He asks, expecting you to retort with ‘I know my desk, Bruce.’ And more struggling.

            Instead you just struggled. Finding one of many flash drives stored in the back of the top right drawer. They were pretty cheap, you demanding a certain brand simply because you could.

            Your _click-click-click_ ing continues for several more minutes.

            Bruce stands a few feet behind you. Watching your fingers go faster then they really should. Even when you were in the groove and could pop out reports without stopping of several hours you didn’t go this far. It wasn’t so much that you were typing fast, but that you weren’t touching the mouse. Like some action movie hacker, you didn’t touch the mouse yet everything on screen was moving documents and opening files.

            It takes a few seconds for a genius like Bruce to realize you were just pretending to type.

            “Honey?” He asks, hand going to your shoulder.

            You had minor self-defense training. Really you were little more than an over-glorified yellow belt in judo. One of the things taught was to get someone’s hand off of you. Grabbing his, fingers digging into his palm, and turning it in the wrong direction.

            He pulls it back and you continue with _“typing”._

There were two kind of emergency buttons in the lab. One for immediate and loud approach, storming guards and sirens and lots of yelling. And one for a subtler approach. For a situation when the threat is on a monologue, or a raid would cause a worse reaction.

            He clicked the second one. You didn’t stop “typing”.

            The agent slides into the lab as your typing stopped and the flash drive was practically slammed into the computer. Going back to typing as though it would fool anyone.

            You knew the agent that shared the look with Bruce. She had a little sister she used to walk to school and volunteered to walk you home after the mugging. She steps up behind the chair, looking over your head to see the files being downloaded.

            “Hey, I’m about to go on brake, wanna get a cup of coffee?” She asks going into the protocol for ‘out of mind’ situations.

            Ever since the New York incident protocol was updated to cover mind control. Company policy was to just pretend like everything was normal and fine, try and get them to a secluded place where less damage can be done. From there they are to be neutralized and brought to medical for examination.

            Without a response Bruce hits the same subtle button.

            First agent says your name, placing both hands on your shoulders.

            The office chair wheels backwards into First agent. Right into her gut that she shoves to the side. Just as aggressive as you had put it in, you ripped out the flash drive. Spinning on low pumps to the lab door and right into Second agent’s chest.

            Second agent you didn’t really know. Used as a “intimidation agent” being over six feet and visibly armed. Their main job was to follow or stand in the corners of visitors the higher ups didn’t like.

            An agent you didn’t have a relationship with was also a part of the mind control policy. One agent can try and handle it but there would have to be two to ensure the rules are followed. Sense he didn’t see you as a life partner or even as a friend, there was no hesitation on his part to grab the wrist holding your flash drive. Or cussing at you when your teeth latched onto his arm.

            Like the professional she is the taser under your jaw unhinged your teeth. Falling backwards into her open arms, flash drive hitting the lab floor.  

* * *

 

            **T’Challa:**

You’re pacing back forth in front of the two way. Everything about your movements were just wrong; your shoulders were square, feet hitting harder on the floor, eyes whipping back and forth for enemies that aren’t there. Your lips stay in a straight line, only opening to snarl when your fist slams against the two way.

            “She became incredible hostile on the plane over,” Mrs. TSA said in the corner of the room. “Flight attendant said she asked for the Princess and tried to get into the cockpit when she was told where they were headed. She was pinned by your security after getting violent.”

            The Dora Milaje in question stands at attention on the left of Okoye. She was charged to protect you both in Wakanda and on the plane over. There was a long conversation between you and Okoye about just how far their protection would last. Although decent at blending in at political functions or fancy-ass parties, they might stand out at your day job.

            There was still a bruise under your left shoulder blade where you were pinned. It took some awkward weeks, but you eventually had created a relationship with your guard. The plane rides becoming more than just awkward glances to each other. T’challa knew this; it just showed how mad you must have become to have your own guard have to take you down.

            “Did anyone talk to you before the flight?” He asks in their mother language.

            “Only the attendants, she received a drink from the one she had attacked.” None of the three were turning their heads to talk to each other.

            You had stopped screaming for Princess Shuri when you were left alone in a room. With nobody to hear you there was no point in asking questions. Instead your energy going into escape; bashing against the mirror, ripping the door handle and even throwing the chair against the wall as though it would break through.

            They didn’t have to ask why you’d be demanding for Shuri when the King was right there. Shuri was arguably more valuable than T’challa was. Although your relationship hadn’t reached that point yet, if he were to die there would be a replacement within a few years. Shuri on the other hand, a mind like that would be impossible to replace within this lifetime. Far more valuable than all the Vibranium in the world.

            Something was inside you, and you were screaming to be let out.

* * *

 

            **Pietro Maximoff:**

Pietro sleeps like the dead at night. One of the few heroes who understood the importance of a good night’s sleep. He’d sleep like a starfish, laying diagonally across the bed, blanket half off and already snoring when you’d come in. Having to slide yourself into the small areas he wasn’t covering. You had to be careful where you slept, too close to a spooning position and he’d roll right on top of you. Nice with a bigger guy, one that’s raw muscle and bones? Not so much.

            That night you were sleeping in a curled ball towards the bathroom door. Pietro on his back, arms spread and leg open. Warmth from your belly button to sternum sat you up in bed. Hands crawling over the sheets to your hands and knees, touching your man’s chest to ensure he really is there.

            Like many nights when you couldn’t sleep you straddle his stomach. Backside above his crotch and pressing forward so when his eyes would eventually open he’d be staring at you.

            Although a hard snorer Pietro knew what the weight of his woman felt like. In his half-sleep daze, he moans at being awoken yet his hands still slide up your thighs. Starting at your knees and ending at your hips. Waiting for the next phase where you starting kissing him lightly until he starts to talk.

            Hands cup his face. Slight smile on his face at his scruff being toyed with. Expecting the first light kiss between his eyes.

            Instead your hands slide down just an inch and _squeeze_.

            Strangulation is so much harder than any movie have described. Taking more than several minutes to keep the air from getting in. And it’s best to be done on someone smaller than you, someone you can pin down and keep down to get your task done.

            You were singled out to send a message of fear instead of an assassination. To show that they can even reach the Avenger’s bed partners.

            Pietro, like most sensible people, grab your wrists.

            He tries to speak but all your weight is being leaned into his throat. Only noise to come out were gagged and barely there. Reaching your shoulders and shoving as hard as he could. Spit hitting your face while he begins to cough out in desperation.

            Faster than hell but not that strong he tries to pull your wrists away. A point of mockery that you were slightly stronger than him after starting a workout routine with Wanda. He really didn’t seem to care, joking that it was nice you could pin him down. But that was almost exclusively to the arms, his legs could still destroy you.

            Feet pressed against the bed he tries to buck you off. Hands gripping your shoulders and rolling you both off the bed. Pietro lands on top of you, fall and landing against the carpet knock whatever was holding you out. The machine’s signal was weak and extremely fragile, broken with a gun shot the next night after a mission.

            Because of this you wake up to Pietro pinning you to the carpet. He was panting but not a look of anger on his face. The same look you had when falling in the shower and hurt your shoulder.

            “Pet?” You asked, wrists held together in front of you.

            He wouldn’t talk until Wanda confirmed there was nothing in your head. Wearing a turtle neck and scarves for the next few days. Refusing to tell you why.

* * *

 

            **Peter Parker:**

You were one of hundreds hit by this aura blasted across the airwaves.

            Last thing you remember is being in your living room. Occasionally glancing up from your homework to whatever random reality TV was on. One moment a woman is screaming at another and the next you’re standing on the edge of your building.

            It was lucky the villain of the story didn’t consider launching their message over streaming serves. This dwindled the victims list down significantly, but every hero in the city was on overtime, catching and stopping those about to step off their buildings.

            Four others in your building stand alongside you. Staring over the buildings without a single thought in your mind. Foot out, weight forward and you come back to yourself.

            It was the same story with the other victims. Aside from the rushing wind, the world is silent for several beats. Like a nightmare of falling but this time you can scream. A hundred people screaming in unison louder than a jet engine through the city and into the next state.

            Screaming didn’t stop even when the falling did. It was like hitting a wall, breath knocked from you, grabbing around the man suddenly holding you.

            The same way you had the nightmare of falling and couldn’t scream, waking up and not being able to breathe. Watching the ground and buildings go past, arms gripping the hell out of whatever was carrying you.

            “Babe, babe, air.” You’re back where you started. Arms and legs still wrapped around your savior and refusing to let go.

            “Sorry, I’m sorry.” Your feet are flat and immediately your butt hits the roof falling back onto it.

            It’s the hardest part of being a hero. Every fiber of him screaming to hold you while the sense are screaming about those leaving the roofs and bridge. His hands are on your shoulders, squeezing harder than he should. “I’ll be back,” You’re nodding but still staring to the roof. “I promise.”

            He did come back, eventually. Not until after you found out the death toll.

* * *

 

**Stephen Strange:**

          Wong had long since given up keeping you from the library. You playing with the books was really the equivalent of a toddler going through their father’s stack of work papers. The paper’s themselves wouldn’t do anything but you could rip or break them. So long as Strange was in there with you, he didn’t seem to care.

            With Stephen already inside Wong didn’t look up as you pass. He wouldn’t have caught the slight blue ring in your left eye, but he might have noticed your too straight back or the bike still running outside the sanctum.

            For a doctor Stephen has incredibly poor posture. Leaning forward over the table; practicing and memorizing a text he already knew by heart.

            “ _Accidently_ tear another page and I’m locking you out.” He says with flipping of a page. Expecting your retort of what you’d lock him out of to come next. When the only thing he gets back is silence it’s a fair assumption that you had left out of boredom.

            It was like a hyper realistic dream. One where anything can happen to you and you’d feel nothing physically. Your bare feet walking over a stone floor without feeling the chill. Hands on either of Stephen shoulders, the stupid robe was thick and layered. Overly so, you had complained about it more than once while trying to strip it form him. Eventually giving up and moving the cloth that was needed to continue.

            His collar had enough give to pull from his neck, showing the junction between his neck and shoulder. His head tilts out of habit as it was one of the few places of skin you got quick and easy access to. Like those time before your lips kiss the space, a quick peck followed by a longer suck.

            He doesn’t look away from the book. His surgeon training keeping him focus on one thing even the distractions are physical. One hand still squeezing the shoulder, the other going to your hip. You had taken this as a challenge before, leaving hickeys before he would even acknowledge you. Mouth opening against his shoulder, teeth gently scrapping along the skin.

            That Cloak hasn’t liked you from the get-go. You still didn’t know how the thing worked; at first thinking it was like an AI or robot that saw you as a threat to it’s owner. But now It seemed to be actually sentient, the floating stopping for a second when you had asked where the circuits were, you likely offended him (her, it). Now you knew that thing was just jealous. Physically getting between you and Stephen when you’d embrace, you swore he had tripped you more than once.

            It had never tried to kill you before.

            Whiplash wasn’t that far off of a thought when you’re ripped backwards by the neck. Cloak covering your face and pressed behind your head like a Venus-fly trap. Grabbing and gripping the red that took over your entire vision, the fabric too strong for your nails to dig through.

            Most small fire-arms now a days have a firing pin lock or a drop-safety. Thankfully yours was one of them; landing on it’s side after you dropped it from being attacked.

            The black metal was a nasty scar compared to the stone floors and walls. A machine that might as well be painted “don’t belong here”, in the isles between books and tables. He didn’t even know you had one, never thinking about what really was in the safe under your bed.

**Matt Murdock:**

          Purple, a concept Matt remembers from his childhood. Specifically, a balloon he had seen once, lasting only a few seconds but becoming a permeant indicator. Later on, another kid at the orphanage proclaimed “the purple syrup is the worst” when they happened to be with the nurse at the same time. To this day he still associates any liquid medicine to be purple.

            It’s also the dress you were wearing at that restaurant.

            Over the shit head’s shoulder, you see a couple walking by. One of thousands that you’ve seen over the past four days walking through areas you’ve never considered going. This one, though, they backtrack to the window. The woman practically pressing her face against the glass, hands on either side of her eyes to combat the streetlight glare.

            The man was already inside the restaurant, woman following quickly behind.

            Karen was a slim woman, but on a mission, you wouldn’t be able to stop her. Walking past Matt, and side stepping the host before he could ask “Do you have a reservation?” Matt could only follow in her wake, knowing the art of walking with a goal and pretending not to hear the “Sir? Sir?”

            Karen says your name before reaching the table. “Where have you been? We’ve all been freaking out.”

            Matt is by her side closest to you. Everything was wrong about you right now; the shampoo you used was different, smell of your apartment wasn’t there and someone else, the man across from you, had had his hands on your arms and back. Enough that his cologne was now in your skin.

            “Is this lovely one your friend, Dear?” Shithead asks, looking up to Karen.

            Matt’s hand goes where it belongs; to your shoulder. A gentle slide from the shoulder blade to over your dress strap so the entire shoulder was in his palm. Your opposite hand covers his, it was what you did. Your way to tell him “You didn’t scare me”, after the first few times he had done this made you jump or tickled enough to let out a noise.

            “Dear,” That voice, _Mr. Kilgrave’s_ voice. “You don’t know these people, you’re not his.”

            _Who the fuck is touching you?_

“Sir, please let go of me.” Your childhood lessons of manners first, profanity next kicked in at this unknown man touching you. Your shoulder pulled back, chair scrapping against the carpet to make some distance between you and the wall.

            The blond woman steps closer to you, saying your name.

            _How’d she know it?_

“I’m sorry, I really don’t you. Either of you.” You look to _Mr. Kilgrave_ , eyes asking him what was going on.

            “I want them to go, you want them to leave, too.” He says.

            _Wow, people can just be so rude. This guy touching you, girl getting way too close…_

            “This is a private dinner; can you leave us alone?” You snap, manners starting to bleed out.

            “We’re not just going to leave you.” Blondie states.

            The guy just stared for a minute. Moving past your table and taking Blondie’s arm. “Karen, she’s telling the truth.”

            It’d be another few seconds before Blondie relented, turning and walking away with hard and quick strides. The guy didn’t look back at you. It was likely because he was blind, based on the cane.

            “Enjoy the date,” _Mr. Kilgrave_ says. Lifting his wine glass in a cheers position. “It’s romantic.”

            You raise your glass to meet his.

            _It was a very romantic date._


	7. Not themselves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mind control is a bigger issue in the field then any where else.   
> (Just a reverse version of "not yourself")

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence against reader ahead.

**Steve Rogers:**   

            You’ve seen Steve in many different moods; so tired he forgets about weight and falls right on you. So much sorrow that he was looming over you one minute and next his face is pressed into the crook of your neck. This one was new.

            He stares at nothing in the corner of the precious quinjet. Looking at the entire world like a passing bus, something that happened but not something that was important enough to remember.

            The expression grew with the slap of a hand against the back of his neck a quarter of the way through the meeting. A bee, worse, a wasp your host had guessed. The smack heard through the conference room stopped all talks at the time. Your host had laughed, “the wasps better than most security,” he had said and continued the conversation.

            It wasn’t completely your fault that Steve wasn’t your focus. It was your fist “mission”; the cute little lawyer to carry the paperwork, hand things over and explain small details. Your use was the same as Steve’s, decoration. Yours for the appeal, and his for respect.

            With the mission technically over you looked towards your man. Still staring towards that corner, back against the wall.

            It was an unspoken rule that you wouldn’t engage in too much PDA. You’ve broken that a few times; a quick kiss when one of you would be staying longer and wouldn’t see each other that night, sometimes your hands would accidentally find their way to your backside in passing, that was the worst of your crimes. Stepping into his space wouldn’t even make the list.

            Standing on your tip-toes and he doesn’t react. Usually matching you chest to chest, looking at you with the almost there smile. This time he doesn’t look at you, doesn’t even acknowledge that someone had gotten into his space. The bus he didn’t need was passing his corner.

            “Just entered US air, ETA; 35 minutes.” Your pilot could’ve just shouted it through the space and you all would have heard it.

            Steve’s bus had just pulled up. His head shooting up like a pan dropped. Arm across your chest, moving you to the side and against the wall with a _“oof”_ you didn’t mean to say.

            Your Senior lawyer goes against the other wall. That was part of your small training when you were hired. Stay out of the way of the real fighters. If you think you can help in the skirmish, you’re wrong. This was in the case of being in the same area as the bad guys, when your bad guy is supposed to be one of the good guys, there is real confusion.

            What he was after involved the jet; either turning it to another location or to just crash into an unknown target. It’s best not to think about what could have been and instead just focus on what is.

            Trying to stop Steve was like trying to push against a tank. Using both hands to push against his chest, feet struggling to walk backwards at the same pace as his long strides. You saying things but its all coming out too fast and, in an order that you couldn’t tell what was being said.

            Grabbing his face did some, stopping the strides, but not enough that he comes back. Same blank expression between your hands staring to the woman he loved. Maybe two seconds more and he’d be going again.

            Nat was one of the few that didn’t hesitate in situations like these. The distraction you gave by cupping his face was enough for her. Her shoe catches the end of your chin when she jumped on his back. Legs wrapping around his chest like her code name-sake. The shoe to your face sends you backwards, it was likely intentional, turning your head and closing your eyes to the electricity slammed into your man’s neck.

            If trying to stop him was like pushing a tank, him falling was like trying to catch one. Falling into your arms; face pressed into neck. Your arms going under his, holding him close even as his weight was taking you down. Your butt hitting the floor with Steve pressing you down.

* * *

 

**Tony Stark:**

            It’s a bug. A work bug that you can see in the eyes he won’t lock with yours.

            At first there was nothing different in his work hours. Spending the entire night working and getting very little sleep was part of his signature. No matter how unhealthy it was. And, it was embarrassing to admit, but it took you some time to notice the differences. Like he was turning away from your kisses: turning his head to save his temple or cheek that you’d gotten the habit of kissing on your way out. No more side comments, not a snarky remark about anything you ever said, and you couldn’t even tell what he was making anymore.

            There was always a method to his madness, spends days banging his hammer against metal and you get a robot. This time, you just get dented metal.

            His arm kept slamming even when you grabbed his face. Middle of the night and you could practically feel the hammer slamming in the walls. Marching down in your nightie, bare feet and not a damn care anymore.

            His back is towards you while hammering at that same spot. Hair greasy, sweat on his back creating an arrow pointing towards the floor.

            None of the other ways of getting his reaction has worked. Screaming, toughing his shoulders, promising everything and even shoving him has no effect. You’ve been hesitant to use anymore violent means but this time it had changed.

            Both hands grab his non-working forearm and drag him backwards, he’s dragged backwards from the metal. There was absolutely nothing important or interesting about this metal. It was scrap, living in the pile of the workshop longer than most of his creations have existed. One a long piece of metal four inches thick and now curved into an almost circle.

            He doesn’t make much noise. Just go limp while being dragged backwards, both your arms under his arm pits. Eleven steps backwards and he starts moving, ripping forward from your hands and into a crawl back towards his obsession.

            Bare toes press against the tile floor. Grabbing his shoulders with both hands, pull your entire weight onto his back and taking him to the ground. Arm around his neck, throat in the crook of your elbow. Other hand holds your wrist, pulling tight and ignoring your man’s gurgle for breath.

* * *

 

**Thor:**

Whatever god that controlled gods was up there they really hated England.

            Thor walked the streets one foot in front of the other. He’s a tower of rage, power and a non-pointed goal. Loki would have been proud, if not also disappointed at the lack of tact. Just his simple being shattered windows and flipped cars.

            Because of the chaos (and the common sense to avoid areas with something like this happening) driving through the streets become so much easier. Not caring about traffic laws and parking in the middle of the road, car door left open and running forward.

            There’s been a storm warning since the early morning. Slowly brewing at the same pace as Thor’s controlled slacked. By this point lighting is striking every few minutes, two intervals between them. Hitting random parts around the city without a target. Just the highest points as lighting naturally should do.

            “THOR!” Hands cupping around your mouth, screaming. “THOR! _THOR_!”

            His back is several hundred feet in front of you. Slowing to a complete stop after your fifth “THOR”. Turning with eyes of lighting and face overtaken by shadows, a mask of power to suppress his being.

            Your next call of his name was weaker, one of fear and anxiety.

            Although out of the car flipping range his raised arm was a real threat. Your body screams and orders you to slam to the ground. Feet going out from under you and hitting chest first into the ground as a bolt hits over your head. Your borrowed car now scrap metal and useless bits covering scattered over the road and sidewalk.

            From your spot on the ground you hear everything hit the ground. This was likely just a trick of the mind that things were falling around. Hearing the clanking metal landing near and far, brain shouting that they were so heavy it was denting the earth. The only real vibration you felt was steps, otherworld steps coming right for your head.

            This was not Thor, he was not yours.

            Heading every warning the news, those people that brought you here and just common sense were screaming. You shot up form the pushup position, walking backwards a few steps as he gets closer.

            He stops and stares, but you just run.

* * *

 

**Bucky Barnes:**

            Anger couldn’t describe how you were feeling in that moment.

            He was supposed to be better, every violated word was supposed to be scrubbed from his mind. The best doctors and technology in the world and they missed it. This one word no one could have ever guessed. Some evil nerd spending days through destroyed books and ripped pages. Leading her through halls and files to create a list shorter then her middle finger. All this done by one woman with a smirk you wanted to cut off.

            The words were shouted over the loud speaker three times before tech cut them off. Sirens, blaring red lights and the distant slamming of steel doors replaced it. The base was going into lock-down.

            Bucky hands press against his eyes. Having stopped like a statue at the first word and a whispered; “no.”

            Certain trigger words in a certain order could make Bucky do anything. Most involve violence or immediate subservice. Both hands rubbing his eyes, hunching forward. His groan becoming a scream of frustration, bent almost fully over.

            “Bucky,” You say reaching a hand out.

            He stands tall, and too straight than normal.

            “James, James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky.” You begin to say everything you can that Steve had suggested. Words that make him remember, too scared to walk around and see his face.

            When he does turn it’s quick and with hunched shoulders. Hair over his face, giving the impression of a bear trapped in a human body.

            “You-You’re from Brooklyn, your best friend-your best friend is Steven Rogers”. He still walking towards you. Whatever command was shouted over the speaker was now directed at you. Your best guess would be either capture or kill as he was walking slow, to not startle you.

            “I’m your girl and-and” He’s closer now. An outstretched arm and he’d have grabbed you.

             “SPUTNIK!”

            Although hidden by the hair Bucky’s eyes roll back. It’s too easy to describe that he had passed out. More like his brain had just severed from the rest of his body, hitting the ground with open eyes rolled back into his head.

            The trigger word was discovered during his treatment. It was a fail safe the doctors kept, only letting Prince T’challa and Steve know about it. He only gave it to you after the relationship got serious. Although it was supposed to be for the safety of everyone it could also be used against him. That explained the tone Steve took during your conversation, not verbally saying it but you got the message; “use it against him, and they’ll be trouble.”

            Onto your knees your hands go into his hair. Moving it from his face and looking for injuries. You had no way to let the base know he was all clear, having to wait with him. Staring into rolled back eyes.

* * *

 

**Natasha Romanoff:**

            She beautiful in the wind. Her dress is sparkled blue with an open back, strap around the neck keeping the front covered over her breasts and tummy. A far jump from her usual non-mission dress of short sleeves and short dress for mobility.

            If her hair hadn’t been held back by an army of bobby pins and clips it be blowing in the wind. Her arms outstretched, elbows locked, palms towards the sky.

            She had disappeared from the party some time ago. Usually a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth before she left for any reason. This time she just left, arm gone from around your waist. At least thirty minutes she was out in the January air, whether she was standing on that particular edge the entire time was unknown.  

            At first you want to call out to her. She probably already knew you were there, she always did. Instead walking up behind her, heels clicking, expecting her to turn around and smile at you. Gesture with her hand out to look over whatever view she was gazing.

            Her long skirt shifts before you can get too close to notice. Long, toned leg, stretching out over the city. Her weight tipping forward, blue dress billowing the farther she tips.

            The building didn’t have any border as no one was supposed to be able to get onto the roof. A basic security system couldn’t stop Nat from getting through, leaving it unlocked for you to follow. Because of this Nat could just walk right off the edge.

            Your heels were a major hindrance when you had to run. One snapping right off and the other thankfully came right off your foot. Still tripping you before you could reach the flowing blue moving from the edge of the roof.

            Landing chest first on the hard edge. Grabbing an outstretched arm, hand around the wrist. Other going around the same, Nat suspended form the end of the roof. Staring down to her potential final resting place several floors below her.

            Nat was lean, but she was anything but light. Made of raw muscle, thick skin and practically unbreakable bones. Combine that with complete dead weight and it like pulling a deer onto a too high truck. Letting go with one hand to try and gain ground and she’d slip through the other. Grunting through gritted teeth, trying to keep a hold on your woman who stares to the ground with blank eyes.

            As though reading your mind a second body slams next yours. Clint, having seen the dangling legs and blue fabric, hit the ground next to you. Grabbing Nat’s arm under your own hands, pulling until he could get his arms around her.

* * *

 

**Bruce Banner:**

            This wasn’t the first time you had seen the big guy come out from Bruce.

            Just not this suddenly; there was always a struggle before he was there. A battle with screaming and moving body to try and get away from something that he was. Hands clutching his head and thrashing as though it could knock it out of him. Each time the last thing Bruce would say is “go” or “run, please” before the other guy would come out.

            This time there was no battle. One minute there was Bruce and the next the entire parking lot was destroyed.

            It was a dart, actual dart from one of those blow guns. How they found out about Bruce’s location was arguably a bigger problem then the current one you were hiding behind a car from.

            Late at night (or early in the morning) there were almost no one around. Watching a single person running in the opposite direction. You’d be questioned about his appearance, but you wouldn’t be able to give anything. Distracted by the car sailing overhead.

            Hands together he slams down onto the parking lot. Vibration through the floor going up your spine and into your skull. Hands to your mouth, keeping the scream inside. Another slam, another hidden scream and the cracks you didn’t see deepen.

            The reports would state it was a crack in the foundation that was pushed and inevitably broke. It was the contractors fault and every car owner would be reimbursed from the federal government. Doesn’t matter that it was a private owned parking garage, most people in the city knew better than to question free things at this point.

            Somewhere in the mess was you. Screaming car horns almost covering the actual roars that was vibrating was foundation was still holding the place up. Your hiding place taking it’s job above and beyond, rolling over just enough to cover your legs. Your body was in a slight bow angle over the debris holding your torso up.

            It hurt, like after a hard exercise but so much worse. By that point your brain was in survival mode instead of stealth. Pushing and clawing in the dirt and dust trying to move with pinned legs and crushed bones.

            It’s metal, the car, your hiding place that pinned your legs down. Every move pulled back and dug them back into the wound. Too scared to look back and see the damages, too scared to make more than a whimper.

            Somewhere above the alarms but below the distant sirens there is yelling. Incoherent yelling without a cause and a source to target with.

            Unable to escape you’re hiding into your arms. Like a kid put into timeout, arms folded, and face pressed into the crook of your arms. The world was being destroyed around you, more metal and debris thrown. Some crashing way too close to you, but still you stayed silent.

            It was an embarrassing to admit that you had absolutely no way to tame the beast. Bruce wasn’t willing to even tell you how to handle him, Thor was abiding by Bruce’s wishes and it would take some time for Nat to teach you how to calm Hulk down. Another, more shameful, part of you was too scared to even consider interacting with the Hulk.

            It was why, even being pinned, and even being injured, you took a sigh of relief when he left. Off to terrorize another some other place.  

* * *

 

            **T’Challa:**

Shuri stood off to the side behind you. Although the smartest person in the world, and the mother of some of the greatest technology, but she was still a sixteen-year-old. One with the same anxiety and concern about an angry older sibling as the rest of us.

            There wasn’t a relaxed bone in T’Challa’s body. Sitting forward, both elbows on their respective knees. Hands closed together with his chin sitting on top of it, staring forwards through the throne rooms. Everyone in the room had purposely taken a few steps backwards to be out of his line of sight. This included Okoye, standing behind his right shoulder. Glancing when the two of you enter from the side.

            Shuri had greeted you when the plane landed. Explaining that not only was something wrong with her brother, but he wouldn’t even respond to her asking about a checkup. Based on Okoye’s look she was seeing the same thing.

            “Sweetheart?” Your nicknames were another foreign thing brought to Wakanda.

            Usually that would be enough to break his regal presence. Give you a side glance a small smile and turning his head forward. That his hand found yours was just something that naturally happened.

            This time he didn’t look over. You say it again, stepping up on the podium to be closer. Reaching a hand out, trying out “honey” this time as your hand laid on his shoulder.

            His grip was _crushing._

The hand not connected to that shoulder snapped to you. Not covering your hand but digging his fingers into the middle of your palm. His nails weren’t as long as most would think (it’s a fair assumption everything considered) but his strength was more then you’d expect. He gives a slight twist, slowly, turning your hand the wrong way until you’re bending forward to try and stay level with your tortured wrist.

            “My King,” In both concern and a command Okoye is the only one brave enough to speak up.

            “Do not speak to me this way again.” He never even looked at you.

            It’s not until you apologize profusely that he releases like a bear trap. If the throne room wasn’t quiet before it was a graveyard now. The only sound being your shoes while scurrying away.

* * *

 

            **Pietro Maximoff:**

            It was weeks before anyone told you where Pietro was. Days of waiting for that _whish_ to come through your apartment, or his sudden appearance at your wok desk. Head resting in his hands like he was bored even though he was only there for a few seconds.

            All it took was a single touch and he wasn’t yours anymore.

            She didn’t have an official name from the public yet, she didn’t seem to be known to the public at all. Just a bystander that took a liking to the silver haired cutie standing off to the side in her store.

            It wasn’t that nobody knew where Pietro was, they just didn’t know how to get _through_ to him. His pattern had changed without a single hint; his phone was gone, not just thrown away but smashed somewhere off the highway. Cameras from up and down the street showed him entering and leaving that little shop, all at a normal pace. All with some other woman on his arm.

            Wanda knew more than anyone Pietro wasn’t a dog. Before meeting you, yeah, he was more casual about his relationships. It’s why she was willing to go with you, and why she was in equal amount of disbelief at his confusion.

            “Baby, who’s this?” The woman asks, a tall drink of water with fire hair and green eyes. They can’t be natural, making her look slightly like an Xbox.

            Pietro looks right past you, like you were see through and something really interesting was behind your head.

            “No idea,” he says, his mouth moving but not the head.

            Wanda starts talking. Rapid fire in her mother language you were still getting around to learn. Pietro just blinks, not a single change in anything his head does. Not even a cock of confusion.

            “Who this?” Woman asks, looking to Wanda.

            “No idea,” he says again.

            Wanda is staring at the woman, who smiles back like looking at an old friend.

            “We need to go,” Wanda’s hand grabs your forearm. “Go now.”

            There was something wrong with that woman. Something that was dangerous but not on the “punch through the city” type. Wanda’s grip was tight, pulling you away even after you tried to talking through to Pietro again.

            For the next few weeks all you could do was watch the gathered security tapes. Hoping that, at some point, he wouldn’t just run from that store. He’d dead sprint.

* * *

 

**Peter Parker:**

          Peter is strong, impossibly strong, and you were trying to hold him back.

            One moment you were in his room. Your designated waiting area for when he’d arrive home for when he come back, sitting on the floor, playing with his mask, it seemed to be one side fits all type of thing. And the next his smile is gone, staring straight towards you. Had you been closer to him instead of sitting cross legged on the floor you would’ve seen his pupils dilate.

            “Peter?” Your question is ignored when he starts to hit himself.

            It’s starts with a small slap, staring blankly to the world. The only one seeming shocked this had happened was you. Another slap opened palmed that left a welt against his face. He raises his hand again.

            “What the fuck, Peter?” You ask standing.

            The next hit left him bloody. Nose slightly crooked, red leaking down his face and over his lips. When his hands raises for maybe the fifth time you were by his side. Using both hands to grab his wrist. At first to get his attention, then to try to stop the next strike you weren’t strong enough to do.

            You’re hugging his arm now. Both arms wrapped around his bicep, trying to keep it point towards the floor. In any other context this would have looked like a sweet embrace between two teens, in this contexts it was just bloody and confusing.

            With his non-dominate hand he starts to hit himself. Nose broken, eyes starting to bruised. He was too strong to try and stop by yourself. Moving from one side to the other to try and stop him from continuing. One strike catches you and there isn’t any reaction from Peter except to continue hitting himself.

            Backwards on the floor, you watch as Peter (still in the spider-man garb) beat himself bloody. A last resort your hands grab the night stand lamps. With the shattering glass against the back of his head you were now on the short of people who have successfully taken out Spider-man.

* * *

 

**Stephen Strange:**

            It’s rare that you spend the night at his sanctum. Usually when there was a storm and your bike wouldn’t make it very far, or if you were just there way later then you meant to. You haven’t gotten to the point of leaving too many clothes there, but to the point of completely taking over his bed.

            Stephen’s accommodations were deep inside the sanctum. If there were a window it’d show an alley way. By the time you dragged yourself to his room you didn’t really care about windows or light. Slip of the pants, unclipping your bra and your face first into his barely used bed.

            Even rarer was when a warm body would join you. Bed would dip between your legs and he’d lay right on top of you. His legs touching the floor, so his face could wedge between your neck and shoulder. If you weren’t fully asleep at that point one arm would slide under your neck, making your face close to his so you couldn’t escape the kisses he’d press to your cheek.

            Just like those times his arms slide into position. Mentally preparing yourself for when he complains in the morning about his arm being asleep.

            He hugs you. He hugs you tight.

            Still clothed legs brace against the bed, his chest pressing harder on your back. Arms closing in, still waiting for those kisses and starting to groan around the arms closing in.

            “Babe…” You mutter, assuming he was trying to get into a better position.

            His other arm find it’s way behind your neck. Together becoming a closed trap around your neck. His forearm against your front.

            He stopped disguising this as an embrace and pulled back completely. Off the bed and pulled against his chest, gasps and coughing that he completely ignores.

            Your hands reach past your head to grab some hair, eyes and anything, He wasn’t your lover anymore when you were in danger, he was the enemy. Hands closing into fists, slamming against his head with absolutely no reaction that it was working.

            Your hands keep going even when your throat is past burning and into fire.

            “Stephen…” You gasp out, starting to follow the blinking lights coming into your vision.

* * *

 

**Matt Murdock:**

            Matt was worse than a dog when it came to sound. Once you actually brought a dog whistle to the park and he almost keeled over. It was why, at the dropping of his drink, you had run to his side. Trying to cover his ears with your hands, as though that could change anything.

            It was also Why Matt seemed to be the only human effected by the silent whistle shot through every wireless and public speaker in the city. Hundreds to thousands of dogs were currently going insane throughout the same city. Old dogs that couldn’t get off the couch were suddenly running head first into doors, family dogs that have never showed their teeth were snapping at anyone who got close, and Matt was currently going insane.

            A boxer’s son who had suddenly forgot how to box flared his hands outwards towards you. Falling backwards onto your butt and hands, glass driving into your palms but sweat pants keeping your backside safe from scars.

            It took years for Matt to get used to and overall handle his senses. All that was gone with the blow of a silent whistle. Grabbing and screaming into the world that wasn’t going to respond to him. Later described like too much data in a too old computer. His body wasn’t willing to shut down, instead trying to run and probably destroying some internal hardware.

            Your body ends up in the corner of the kitchen. Hands braced against the fridge and the wall, ready to jump and run if he got too close.

            It was horrifying to watch your man, a man who had stood before judge and jury dozens of times, on his hands and knees. His hands sliding along the floor, crying at the heightened pain and overwhelming alcohol smell he was forced through.

            Worst came when your name was coming from your lips. Starting as a realization that you were there, as a whisper, and becoming a scream alongside the rest of his sounds. Everything was free by that point; spit and tears flowing, beginning to cry from the overwhelming, calling for you to help. To do anything to make it at least slow down.

            But you couldn’t, you could only sit there. Closing your eyes and hoping the whistle would eventually stop.


	8. Mob AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly Dark avengers

**Steve Rogers:**     

            A single lamp was on in the corner of your living room. Steve had tried to stay up for you again.

            He’s sitting in the corner of the couch in his regular clothes. One leg up, head leaned back against the arm rest, one arm over his face, probably placed there after “shutting his eyes for a few seconds” that resulted in the nap.

            A drawing pad is open on his lap, pencil fallen from his hand and onto the floor. It was the pad you had bought him awhile ago, the big expensive kind. “I saw it on my way back,” You had said. “It was on sale,” you had said to get him to accept it. It was not, actually, on sale.

            He had been drawing the doorway next to your turned off TV. Door open, showing one corner of your bed and the bedroom’s wall paper. Using dark shadows on paper. Where the only outline in the door was that of the bed, everything outside the doorway was lighter, like he hadn’t focused on them as much.

            His art had started to take off around the same time you started with your “social club”. Less time spent together, more time with the drawing pads. Longer you were out the better the things you brought back. New TV, bed spread from a specialty store instead of the local Walmart, and more drawing pads.

            The one he used was closed gently. Placed on the coffee table without any noise.

            He was a very weird sleeper. Slept like the dead but a certain sound, high pitched or too loud, would send him bolted upwards. Things like walking on soft feet, or a fan running wouldn’t wake him up. Picking up his leg and placing it next to the other, next coming the couch blanket over his body.

            It’s best that he didn’t know about your little “club”. He loved you madly, enough to not ask questions, but also enough to worry. It’s best he didn’t know, it’s best that he just sleeps.

* * *

 

**Tony Stark:**

            It’s easy to forget the danger that comes with your life. A lavish penthouse, drivers and constant respect from absolute strangers had a way of spoiling a person. That a gun had to be constantly strapped to your hip did little to change that.

            It’s not until his hands _grips_ yours that you are reminded of that. A whisper into his ear, a slamming phone call or just glancing at a text and his hand is somewhere on your body. Shoulder, knee, ankle, and hands were always open for his hand to hold. Your entire life becoming a human stress ball for your husband.

            You only ever asked what was wrong when he comes in upset, then it’s up in the air towards the cause. His answer will always be sarcastic;

            “Having a bad day?” You would ask as he walked past.

            “No, it’s going great. Black mail is in now a-days, right?” That was the farthest he would explain it. Reaching for the closest part of you to him and groaning into the hand covering his face.

* * *

 

**Thor:**

            You don’t know where he went, you don’t know what he was doing and, you didn’t want to know. What you do know is that he comes home late, that he is paid well, and that he loves you, no matter what.

            “Shoes…” You remind him.

            _Thunk Thunk_

            You had only been asleep a few minutes ago. Still half-awake, blinking slow while approaching Thor. In the walkway past your main entrance he mostly strips on the welcome mat. Shirt, pants, tie and, of course, shoes are bundle together and put into your arms. One long blink as he leans down and kisses your cheek.

            “Thank you,” He says, walking towards the shower before you yell at him about that too.

            Your hand grabs around the handle of the hammer left by the door. The one thing he kept forgetting, leaving that thing head down on the tiles, smear of red left behind you’d have to clean later.

            Clothes are tossed into the tub in passing. Trusty large bucket pulled from under the sink, dish soap taken out, bleach put in. A dangerous combination if they were to ever mix, but it was best to keep them together. _“It’s just cleaning supplies, officer.”_ You would say when they’d finally appear with a warrant.

            On your knees in front of the tub it fills with freezing water. Dish soap poured in and you begin scrubbing. Be it from wanting to finish quickly or that your muscles weren’t alive yet, your pajama shirt would be soaked by the end of the cleaning session.

            Water is a candy-apple red by the time the stains are gone from the shirt. The pants were easier, given the black color. The shirt was the faintest pink from the water, that would be removed after a regular run through the washing machine. Where they both go after wringing them out and tossing them in.

            The hammer was another story, soaked in bleached, scrubbed with a tooth brush. Left in the sink to naturally dry and then to be placed back into the tool belt in the garage. When somebody asks why only your finger prints are on it, _“because it’s mine, why else?”_

An alarm would sound in the wee hours of the morning for you to put it back before living hours. For now, though, you strip as Thor had. Tossing your wet clothes in with the others and starting it up. Thor had many white shirts and black pants, why were these so special?

            He’s just coming out of the shower a few seconds after you return to bed. Hair damp, muscles relaxed, a thick hand lays on your side under the covers. A kiss, just as sweet as the first, is placed on your temple. He smells like rain and copper.

            Not that you would know anything about that.

* * *

 

**Bucky Barnes:**

             This young man before you is a dime a dozen. Although the “leader” of his little group, you wouldn’t be able to pick him out from the group as anything but a drone. He wasn’t exactly a skeleton like the other quivering street rats forced into your office. He was fatter, but still gangly none the less. Not that he was looking to you, looking over your shoulder the entire time.

            “So, was it an accident? Or are you just stupid?” you ask after a few seconds.

            He finally looks to you, only for a few seconds, then returning over your shoulder. “I didn’t- nothin’ was meant by it. We just- yeah, we just got drunk.”

            “So, you were confused.” You finished for him.

            He nods quickly as the boards creek under a walking weight somewhere behind you.

            “The Winter soldier” or “the white wolf” had a bigger reputation then you did. To very few he was Bucky. A man with a bloody past and one hell of a resume. This brought him into your payroll and eventually into your arms.

            “Yeah, we, uh, I’m sorry. We were drunk and, we’re so sorry.” At least now he was looking in your direction, with Bucky standing behind your chair.

            “You were drunk, so drunk that you picked a fight. Went into an alley and beat a twenty-two-year-old until his jaw broke.” Picking up a file and slapping it down for effect. It was actually filled with receipts from take out for tax reasons, but he didn’t need to know that. “So drunk that you left him there and weren’t even smart enough to try and get out of _my_ territory.”

            The truth was Mikey, one of your boys with too big a mouth, had started the fight. But you’d have to deal with him later.

            He incredibly quiet at this point. Unsure where he’s supposed to stare, looking between you and Bucky just behind your chair.

            “I’m so sorry,” He tries again.

            “He has bills, a lot of bills now and I’m not putting that on his family.” You spat, opening your receipt file. “I’m putting that on you.” The file is slammed down again, hoping not to lose any of the receipts and get yelled at by your accountant.

            He’s staring right at you now.

            “Get your shit together, get the money together and everything is going to get a lot easier.” He’s nodding fast before you even finished your statement. “Bill will be in the mail, get out.”

            He practically runs from the room. Sam smirking as he followed him out, making sure the rat actually left your building.

            Your wolf’s hands go to your shoulders. Squeezing them softly, a soft kiss to the top of your head when there is no one there.

* * *

 

**Natasha Romanoff:**

            That bitch, that absolute bitch.

            “I’m so sorry,” Were the words your ‘work friend’ had said in the office. Stepping into your space with false kindness, before dropping the bomb without a second thought.

            He had supposedly seen Nat at this high-end bar he moonlights at. You had every reason to ignore his accusation; he had only met her once, in the winter when you both wore heavy coats and hats, in a passing “hey,” before moving on. A far reach from the supposed get up Nat was wearing that night. The words “she was a little whore-ish looking” were used, the glare you gave sent him running back to his cubical.

            He was right though, that weekend there she was. Sitting on one of those too expensive stools, leaning against the bar with one arm. The other putting her hand on the knee of the man in front of her, she was looking at him with a Gatsby worthy look. The same she would give you, seeing it given to someone else, though. It was probably easier to be shot.

            In another lifetime you might have stormed in and started a scene. Instead the wound was too much. Sending you limping home to ignore her calls and text. You’d still be too hurt to read the paper some days later. Completely missing the man’s obituary.  

* * *

 

**Bruce Banner:**

            They always go for the supposedly weakest member of the family. A few days the same car had been following you, more specifically he, Bruce didn’t notice. Even with your head looking back to it every few steps when you walked.

            You were preceptive, not sneaky.

            It wouldn’t be long before they’d try and contact him. That would come maybe a week after, when which ever branch of law enforcement on your ass figured out his schedule. He was on the street earlier then usual that day. Leaning forward into a car window that you unfortunately recognized. This slowed your walking to a complete stop; an exception were the one and two taking you between buildings. A horrible hiding spot if anyone were to actually be looking at you.

            He steps away from the car with half a smile. It’s the kind he does to replace frustration, laughing at something said by the people in the car. It pulls out from curb as you start half-walking, half-trotting towards your man. Your line of questions completely ignored as his hand takes yours.

            “Stark gonna help us with that vacation?” You asked over lunch.

            The “opportunity” those agents had offered Bruce were laced with reminders of his past. That of the anger which went out of control, the record he had to be upfront about at the beginning of your relationship and all that could easily go away.

            “He’s more then willing to, where he wants us to go may be… too much.” Bruce says, hidden behind a menu. Tony’s idea of laying low was a penthouse outside of the united state jurisdiction. “Rogers owes you a favor, though, right? Maybe he has an idea?”

            “That’d be too close to home, we need a more…exotic place to relax.” He offered. “Shuri loves me, her family has a place.”

            “That works, should I bring a bathing suit?” You had asked.

            You would both be gone from the radar within a week.

* * *

 

            **T’Challa:**

            The floor is so much more comfortable then the couch for reading. Back to the cushions and legs spread out, you don’t bother looking up when he enters the house.

            Call it fake or call it protection, T’challa’s personality changes depending who he is with. With outsiders he can considered cold, several are still under the impression he doesn’t even speak English. The family he was respectful, big brotherly with an unrestricted face. His inner circle and the jokes come out, more teasing to their boss and relaxed shoulders. With you, everything is gone.

            The entire world a weight he drops at the doorway. Calling out to you which you don’t bother responding to as he would find you no matter what.

            “How’d it go?” He sits on the couch next to you, your shoulders, naturally leaning into his legs.

            “It was very long, everyone was…yelling.” He’s tired, legs stretching out under the coffee table. Chest sliding farther down the couch with a groan. “It was done, though. Of course.”      

            A few seconds of silence as you finish the page your on, placing book mark and closing the binding. He doesn’t move from his spot on the couch, even when you placed the book on the coffee table and stood up. Staying in his relaxed position, only making a small noise when your warmth leaves his legs.

            He jerks slightly when you walk around the couch. Arm moving from his face to see you looking down at him. Your hands on either side of his head, scratching through his hair line, massaging his head. Humming is added when your thumbs rub over his eyebrows, gently across his eyelids and two fingers against his temples

            Although “Black Panther” was just his mob name, he did tend to act like a cat. Eyes closing softly, a groan in the deep of his throat, head moving to chase your hands when they move too far from their duty. If he were any more feline like he’d be purring.

* * *

 

            **Pietro Maximoff:**

            A club is a stupid place for a business meeting. It’s too loud, even in the private booths, and the over priced drinks just made the guy out as being a snob. Sent as Stark’s representative you had to play the game on the guy’s terms.

             It was why you were currently scanning over the banister. Looking for that little color flashing in the strobe lights.

            And there it is, silver tie hung loosely around his neck. Leaning against the bar, your cute lookout taking his break from scoping out the club. He catches your eye after looking upwards, a little head tilted upwards. _Not a trap, we’re good._

You give a head down, _come up, need help._

            He’s smiling before disappearing into the crowd of moving bodies. You turn to the “clients” you were meeting. Stark had talked about expanding for awhile now. More into the school district (that many of the families own kids attended the school was just a coincidence) hence the yahoos you were forced to talk to.

            Two sons from old money sitting in the lounge chairs. A woman draping over the back of the elders brother, she not paying attention, around his neck, standing behind the chair like his cape.

            “Do you like the place?” Younger brother asks as you sit down.

            “It’s very bright. Nice and young, just as Boss had described the two of you.” Stark had actually used to words ‘freshly dropped from community college’ but yours were better. “A little young running this place, young to be as powerful as you both are.”

            They preened like birds at the compliment.

            “It wasn’t easy,” Oldest jokes and you all have a good life.

            Pietro was a quick little jack rabbit. The fastest runner in the family, which was how there was suddenly a glass in your face. Weight on one arm of your chair as he leans against you, putting the arm around your shoulders after you take the glass. Your arm around his waist. A new pretty thing to show off you were just as good as they were.

            The youngest twerks an eyebrow while the eldest squints.

            “Pretty young yourself to be here, why?” He asks.

            Tips of your fingers gently touch the small gap of skin between Pietro’s shirt and pants. “Boss wants some of your area, he’s more than willing-.”

            “He wants a piece of our shit?”

            “Just a piece, a small piece.” You say. “Are you even using it? Don’t you want money? Don’t you want a cut without doing any work?”

            Both brothers take a long drink from their glasses. Pietro takes the chance to take the glass from your hand. The arm candy with the tendency to steal, scandalous.

            “Why didn’t Stark come himself?” Oldest asks.

            “He’s so old, you really think he would like this place? It’d be the same as bringing your grandpa to the club.” You explain.

            “Jude,” Youngest says, gesturing for his brother to come.

            “We’ll be back.” Oldest says, following his brother to the off-side office. His cape following close behind, being sure to keep hold of his arm.

            Pietro gives your glass back after their gone. “So, I am just here for my looks?” He asks.

            “You love it,” You state, knocking your head back for the last of the drink.

* * *

 

**Peter Parker:**

            For the two years you’ve known Peter you had no idea his statues. That the “prince of the family” was the same guy holding your hand and walking you home after school. That the black car following you down the street was nothing to be concerned about. Or the dark reason bullies had suddenly stopped bothering him.

            Like at most schools bullies were a problem that was “complicated” to deal with. Peter, unfortunately, was on the receiving end of quite of a bit of it. The same could be said about you, girls are more brutal then many are willing to admit. Both of you had your reasons not to tell anyone, the office was aware but what could they do? Excuses came from the secretaries about how horrible it was for the bullies and the sympathy you needed to feel for them.

            Thus, the side by side walking you did together. Hands going from swinging by your sides to interlocking fingers.

            Although you neve told your parents about the problems, Peter had the truth forced from him after coming home with a black eye.

            Peter was a bad liar, but great at keeping secrets. Had you never asked about the car suddenly dropping him off and picking him up everyday you wouldn’t have noticed the bullies. Noticed the red and blue casts around their arms, that they were completely avoiding Peter’s eye contact and even turned around at the sight of _you._

            “My dads are really protective.” He said one day at lunch, that was the truth. “I don’t know what happened, though.” That was a lie.    

* * *

 

**Stephen Strange:**

            Following basic directions were easier then most complained about.

            “More pressure, a lot of pressure.” He’d say.

            “Hold this back for me.” He’d say.

            “Sweetie, go wash up.” He’d order before you’d enter the room.

            In the end you were little more then a glorified nurse. One without any medical training but plenty of experience holding people down and handing over medical tools. The toughest made man would grab the hell out of your hand during stitches.

            Thor does this now, his face cringing into distortion. Holding your hand and focusing on you instead of the stitches being put into his leg. “Is it out yet?” he asks, with a groan.

            “You don’t remove a bullet,” Stephen says form the other end of the table. “Just patch it up,”

            Thor lets out a little “ah!” when the surgical needle goes through a thicker piece of his skin. Your hand pressing against his forehead to keep him from sitting up and seeing all the blood and a foreign object going through his skin several times. Doesn’t matter how tough he was, how much blood he sees on the regular, when it’s your own; there’s something different.

            “Stop whining.” Stephen says, wiping the disinfectant from the wound.

            After that it’s a few seconds of wrapping bandages around his calf. Pant leg pulled over and Stephen scoots over to look over his patient. Pulling the small pill bottle of golden “magic” he definitely did not create himself.

            “Wait till you get home, take a quarter, _a quarter_ , of a spoon when you get home. If you do, don’t touch the butterflies, just don’t touch anything.” He warns, holding it out to him.

            “And there’s no refill, either.” You add. Stephen pointing to you for emphasis.

            “Thank you, Dr. Strange,” Thor says as though he hadn’t gotten the lecture a hundred times by now. He sits up on the table, smiling at you. “And nurse.”

            Neither of you had the legal license anymore. Not that it was needed to patch up bullets.

* * *

 

**Matt Murdock:**

          “You been through the sports lately?” Officer something-face says on the other side of the table. He’s slouched in his chair, paper held in front of him as though hiding from the other side of the room. “I don’t read it myself all that much. Watch too much of it, I already know what they’re gonna say. It’s all gonna be wrong.”

            This was the tactic they were going with: good guy, nice cop, spends the first bit talking to you. Rope into a conversation, get you comfortable and get you to spill. When that didn’t work after awhile another cop would come in storming. Yelling at nice cop for being so nice and going on a rant hoping you’d interject. After that, a ping pong game of questions from both cops until you snap and say something.

            Now, the only thing you could do, was mentally prepare for it. Sitting there like a pouting toddler, arms crossed, refusing to look at him.

            “Where’s my lawyer?” You said the magic words an hour into your interrogation.

            “You know we’re not gonna be able to talk they arrive?” Nice cop says.

            “Stop talking,” the door slams open and your angel walks in. Hand out, sticking to the wall so he doesn’t run into the table during his march through the room. “Is my client under arrest, Officer? Has she been

            “And they arrive,” Nice cop says gathering his paper. “Mr. Murdock, where there’s blood you’re sure to follow, starting to think you might be a shark.”

            “Only if the blood is my client’s. Is she under arrest?” He asks, hand leaving the wall. Going instead to your shoulder, both as comfort and to acknowledge where you were.

            “There was a murder, with her MO.” Nice cop says.

            “I’m sorry, I was unaware she was convicted of murder.” Sarcasm, he was at the previous trials and arrests. Nothing was ever held against you.

            “You know all your clients are, Murdock.” Nice cop says, starting to become not-as nice cop. “This time, she wasn’t so careful.”

            “I wasn’t even there!” You almost yelled, toddler now throwing an almost tantrum in standing quickly.

            Matt’s fingers curl into your shoulder, practically slamming you back into the chair. Leaning into your space and whispering a soft, “Shut the fuck up.” Before standing straight.

            “Is she under arrest?” Matt asks again.

            “Not yet,” Not-as cop admits.

            “Then we’ll be seeing you.” His arm is around your forearm. Pulling you up from the chair.

            Matt, the man at the top of your don’s payroll, was smart enough to wait until you’re both outside to ask; “What did you do?”


	9. Captain's wife (Moment with Steve Rogers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve never considered what he was leaving behind when he would try and enlist.

The letter in Martha’s hand was almost black from how much she was manhandling it. Between every pause in work she’d snatch it from her pocket. Run her thumb over where her husband wrote his name, once or twice reading the entire thing and holding up the line.

            “She got it yesterday,” Sarah, the beautiful round woman whose own had been shipped out. “It’s surprising she came in, honestly.”

            Martha sits at one of the tiny tables across from you. Letter in front of her, face cupped in hands. You try not to look at her, but a few glances wouldn’t hurt. Looking more towards Sarah to try and indicate if anything changed. Based her avoidance of eye contact all there was is a sitting scared woman.

            “How’s your Steve doing?” Asks Lauren, the third woman at your table.

            “He’s still in basics,” Short, simple, same answer every time you’ve been asked.

            “Been there for a long time.” Lauren says with a _hmm_ sound.

            “It must be rough, thinking that three days is a long time.” Sarah almost snaps on your behalf.

            It seemed Sarah was the only one who believed that little Steven had qualified. She knew Steve longer then you had, she knew his determination, so it came only as a little surprise that he made it.

            “Long enough for a letter back, maybe?” Lauren asks.

            “No, not long enough.” You say.

            It was easy to put up with Lauren’s shit before. Just a week ago you were the object of almost hate because of jealousy. One of the women who didn’t have to worry about losing her man to war. Whose man was so privileged he could try again and again to qualify, that you could stand by the doorway and encourage him without a single fear of ever losing your man. Now, to Lauren, it was like watching karma kick you in the shin.

            Based on the rumor mill Steve wasn’t actually drafted. Supposedly he actually just left you. From there it varied what happened to him; after too many failed attempts at being recruited he ran off to find a nice cliff or high place to fall from. Or that he found a better woman, one who didn’t work so much, one that knew how to treat a man. Both hurt, both suggested you were to blame. Not enough of a woman, a wife, to keep a man with so few options like Steve.

            “At least, with your free time, you can pick up his chores. Without children there to bug you, that is.” Lauren adds. “I imagine any of his children would have needed extra care.”

* * *

 

            The house was crypt without Steve and Bucky. In the span of two nights both of your men were gone. Bucky first, that was expected, the hug was quick and the demand he doesn’t die was faster. Steve second and his was worse.

            It never occurred to you that your man’s biggest smile could make your heart drop into your shoes.

            His departure was anything but quick like Bucky’s: first, a quarter of the books were gone from the shelves. Then some clothes. He took any warmth that was on the left side of the bed, he took the companion to your hand and the kisses you got during the day when you’d venture too close into his space. By the time he was gone, it was years later, and the only thing he left was a crypt of memories.

            Sarah, who was a saint this entire time, brought her life into yours. Those weeks still dragged, but they dragged by helping cook meals. They pulled like her children pulled your arms and tried to climb you like a tree. They moved with every walk of her dog, every night spent on her couch and every moment she yelled for your feet to get off the cushions. By the time you made your way back to the crypt, it had been days.

            Opening the door and it was still as empty as Steve had left it. The jewelry you were wearing that night; single charm necklace and pair of stud earrings, together not worth much except in sentimental value. To a robber it didn’t matter; they were shiny and easily grabble the first time through. But there they sat, in the corner of the counter, next to the stove right where you set them minutes before Steve left.

            Both hands are massaging your sore feet when the door knocks. Everyone near you knew the crypt was empty, why would they knock?

            “No one’s here.” You yelled.

            The door kept banging.

            “This is the radio!” You yell.

            “You shouldn’t leave it on when no one is here.” The door says in Steve’s voice.

            Dinning room chair almost shattered when you shot up from it. It’s back hitting the kitchen floor. The wood at least cracked, but that didn’t matter. Making it across the kitchen floor to the door did. The old handle became stupider and stupider the longer it took to turn.

            Finally, turning after two tries, it flung open. Sending you straight into a wall.

            Your face presses into course military fabric, cheek against chest. It’s a panic, an absolute panic as to who you’ve just run into. His hands are on your shoulders, they are gentle, but they are too strong and press into bone. A hard step backwards to see the face of the man who married on a body you hadn’t.

            He’s almost a foot taller, over a hundred pounds heavier and the rest of him…

            “These are new,” You say with a gentle squeeze to his forearms.

            “It’s a-there’s a lot.” He says, with a laugh.

            For the first time you reach upwards to cup his face. Focusing on the one part of him that hadn’t changed, thumbs gently touching his cheeks. Standing on tip-toes to scratch through the light hay colored hair. He leans forward, a pup pressing into his best friend’s pets.

            “What’d they do to you?”

            His smile is off, like he wasn’t sure whether you’d approve or not.


	10. Keeper of the word (Night convo with T'challa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your job is simple, almost non-essential, but it’s important. And it’s recognized by more then just you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was requested on my Tumbler (of the same name).  
> I'm not the best at meetings or meet cutes, I tried my best.

~~~~

There is likely never to be someone quiet as unqualified as you for this job.

            Young, no past experiences in the medical or psychiatric field. None of your college course covered this area. Any experience you did have was from before your move; retail, fast food, high school jobs without a future to them. Nothing but a college student who picked the wrong apartment to spend your year abroad.

            But you were smart, you were kind, and not once did you mention that your next-door neighbor was the winter soldier and the world’s most wanted criminal.

            “Is this hurting him?” A stupid question but what else could you say?

            Dr. Azza tried to stop his slight smile. To most who had seen you so far seemed to see you as either dangerous or just strange. Dr. Azza probably had children, based on his age some might have been as old as you.

            “No, it is…like sleeping. He is asleep” He explains pointing to the screens next to the upward bed surrounded holding your friend. He’s surrounded by fogged glass and several screens you don’t understand what’s on them. From the words to the math you’d never be able to wrap your mind around what they meant.

            Dr. Azza had become your new best friend over the past few days. The cryo specialist who spoke very little English, but still gave a half-smile when you made eye contact. Your fun little bracelet the Princess gave you allowed for translation, but it was still a little sketchy about catching all your words. In the end your conversations would typically turn into charades with an attempt at a language you didn’t know.

            He was the one who let you pull a comfier chair into the Cryochamber room. Sat against one of the massive windows, almost completely padded white and not as bad for your back as you had thought. It wasn’t a permeant solution, but it kept you close to Bucky.

             Your name is spoken on the other side of the room. Dr. Azza looks up from the chamber. Speaking into his wrist quickly, your own lighting up.

            _“I’m going to bed/home/away, is there anything you need/want/require?”_ It spoke in an accented female voice.

            “No, have a good night.” You spoke back into your bracelet.

            The same female voice spoke from his side of the room. He looks up to you and smiles, waving his hand before heading out. You did the same.

            Legs stretched out you slide deeper into the chair. Azza, the Sweetheart, had brought you a ‘borrowed’ sweater. You had no idea whose sweater it actually was, but they were at least three sizes bigger then you. Your face was barely visible in the piles of fabric you sank into. Too tired to walk around, but not enough to try and sleep.

            Next to the sedative dispenser you were the next line in defense. A thick black mark in a red book older then you made it so. Captain Rogers refusing to give up the information made it official.

            Very few people in the entire world knew what was under the black mark. You were among them; rediscovering the word on the flight over. Holding up the book to Captain Rogers like a child showing off their latest and greatest drawing. It wasn’t a long word, something simple that you easily memorized before it was crossed out with a black marker.

            Under strict orders from Captain Rogers you were to never say the word unless absolutely necessary. Everything else you were to give to the doctors, to the princess, to really anyone who wore a white coat you were to be as open as the red book.

            Your face tingled slightly from the cold of the chamber. Bringing snowflakes that didn’t exist down on your eyelashes. You’d hear if there was any movement from Bucky, there wasn’t any reason not-.

            The lab door opens and every part of you is sent into high gear. Sometimes one of those guards will poke their head in, see if you’ve messed with anything you weren’t supposed to. Usually the door with be slightly opened or they’d just walk around the glass. When you’d see them, you’d give a wave, one that was almost never reciprocated.

            “Hello…?” Probably should have used the bracelet.

            You’ve seen King T’challa a hand full of times since being here. He looked at you a few times, nodded his head when you met him. All those times you were off to the side or weren’t a participant of the conversation for longer then a few seconds. You were just a decoration in room, a lovely statue worth a glance but not a stare.

            “Your highness,” The statue comes alive in moments of panic.

            Your legs were almost asleep in the position you were in. Suddenly in a standing position and your more then a little wobbly. The sweater was longer then it was wide, basically wearing a thick nightdress that almost went to your knee.

            “I’m sorry, do I-do I bow?” You asked, back already slightly bent. It was an honest miracle that you didn’t grab the end of your sweater and try to courtesy.

            “You do not have to, no.” He says, a softer expression then you had seen before.

            He looks back to the chamber. Looking over the machine more then the person inside.

            “I saw you guys do ‘I love you’ sign.” You said, prefer an awkward look over awkward silence.

            And an awkward look he gave. Eyebrows knit together, head turning towards you in a _“what?”_ expression.

            “Oh, uh, the arms,” You cross your arms over your chest. Hands open. “It means ‘love’ in American sign language. Although it probably means something else here.”

            A quarter smile was added to the look. A small shake of his head, but it wasn’t condescending.

            You had gotten many looks while you were here. Most could fall into the category of, “Who is this?”, and others were small laughs and suppressed smiles that might as well shout you were doing something wrong. The guards were the easiest to handle; for a while they all looked at you as you were, an outsider and a possible danger. The big boss guard, one with the gold necklace compared to the other silver, visible tensed when you moved too close into the Princess’s space.

            In your defense there was absolutely no indication about what the cultural differences were between America and Wakanda. They seemed to be bigger than you could have imaged Any massive amounts of confidence you had were gone as you reverted to an awkward young person, unsure with every step you took.

            King T’challa was different in his looks didn’t appear to be from surprise how foreign you were. More in a fashion of watching a child learn how to read.

            “Clench your fists,” He crosses his arms and you do the same. Your hands clenching into fists. “Just like that, it’s like our salute.”

            “If I do it wrong will Princess Shuri make fun of me?” You ask looking down to your X.

            The nod he gave was filled with previous experiences.

            The cryo-chamber gave a steady stream of beeps from the heart monitor. It was the only monitor which had both the Wakandan and your mother language on it. Azza showed you, pointed and explained every button on the monitor, the whole thing unfortunately too tall for you to reach the very top of without standing on your tip-toes.

            Soft beeping become louder in the silence you and King T’Challa. Not enough to send an alarm but enough that it would have woken you from your sleep.

            “He’s dreaming,” A comment for yourself then your conversation. When the beeping starts to speed you speak again. “It’s a nightmare, he’s scared.”

            “Like he’s being chased?” King T’challa asked.

            “Sure, excuse me.” He takes a small step to the side when you step into his space.

            The top part of the monitor, point in which you couldn’t reach, was arguable the most important part. Simplified it was another type of sedative, the type that send him deeper under where the dreams couldn’t reach him for a time.

            Standing on your tip-toes a single hand reaches past you. Hovering over the button until you nod and then press down on the monitor. Beeping slowed and a hiss, to indicate the release of whatever drug was used, played throughout the room.

            “Thank you,” You say. He takes a step back for you to leave the small area.

            You had seen news footage of the King of Wakanda at meetings in a suit and tie, saw him when you first entered the country in robes of his country, and saw him as _the_ Black Panther in the suit and shiny claws and everything. This one was new; dark sleeping pants and a long sleeve shirt that seemed to be weighted. His feet were bare, and the clothes barely made any but a small swishing noise when he moved. It looked incredibly comfortable, but bare feet on tile just made a chill appear up your spine.

            A majority of your time together was silence staring at a frozen man.

            “You’re Highness...?” You asked after enough time that the beeping was completely back to normal.

            “You can call me T’challa.” He says in a softer voice that matched the late hour.

            “How long will it take to get that stuff out of his head?”

            He thinks for a minute before answering. “I don’t know, but we will help. We will do everything we can to, however long it takes.” He thinks for another few seconds. “Shuri is excited, she knows what she is doing.”

            “So, he could be in there for months.” You add, nodding as if you were agreeing to something he said.

            Conversation hitting another low point you walk back towards your chair. Not sitting down just yet, hovering around the area.

            “A room can be made ready,” King, no, just T’challa says. “There are several in the castle that you can move into tonight.”

            “He may dream again, and I want to be here for him. I wouldn’t be able to run over here if something happened, not as fast as others, anyway.” You sat back into the chair for emphasis, “Thank you for the offer.”

            “One around the labs then? Steps away from your friend.” He says.

            “That would be- yes, that would great.” It’s borderline greedy but a bed sounded like actual heaven compared to the chair you were living in.

            He stands closer to your chair, quarter smile at your happiness for a simple room. You had seen, and heard, a lot about the confusion between Bucky and T’challa. Including full on assault from a place of anger and an urge for urgent revenge. According to Captain Rogers T’challa regretted the entire situation, enough to give him asylum and medical treatment without a blink of the eye. That all you asked for was a room, that you didn’t even actually ask for, was almost nothing.

            “If there is anything else, anything at all.” He says.

            “I’ll go straight to you. After your guards stare at me some more.”

            It wasn’t a full laugh worthy joke but enough for you both to smile. A genuine look or relation. Even with all the knots in your back.


	11. End of the game (spoilers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Game has played and the war has won, now live with it's consequences.

**Steve Rogers:**

          It’s hard to hear what was being said from so far away. Mouths are moving after Sam approached. A small glance towards you before he was at this familiar stranger’s side.

            “It was beautiful,” said in the same tone as the rest but might as well be screamed.

            A verbal gunshot through your heart.

            Your bleeding out with realization with every clear cloud. When an opportunity arose to with the one you love nobody would pass it up. The years and decades you dreamed of, Steve had lived it without you, living in a house bought with a wife with someone else’s face, having children that weren’t yours.

            Your Steve had left in a machine of science-fiction come alive. It was easy to think of the billion different ways he could have been convinced to stay. Hug him tighter before he leaves, do more of those things he liked weeks before. Maybe you should hop into that machine yourself, try and start over and hope it’s good enough.

            It would never be, though. He was yours because he couldn’t have her.

            You were just borrowing him.

* * *

 

**Tony Stark:**

          There is a weight on either side of you in the form of a person. Happy on your right and Rhodey to your left. Both there for their own grieving and to counteract the weight dragging you down towards the lake.

            Just like a wedding we’ve all had fantasies of our funeral. How we’d refuse the clichés and go our own route. That we’d be able to have a say in what happens. Change it from a day of mourning to that of celebration. Where there is to be nothing black, the music going, and drinks raised in our name. That won’t happened most of the time.

            Death is more likely to grab you before any plans can be put into action. What little can be done for the dead’s wishes still won’t change the “cliques”. Every story of a wild party, of the great deeds and everything he’s ever done that’d go in history was covered. A thick layer of depression frosting you were forced to choke down with every bite.

            You unknowingly start to waver back and forth. Happy’s arm slides into yours, your head resting into his shoulder, his head on yours.

            Pepper took the reins of the entire funeral. A strong woman handling a horrid time with the grace of a CEO. A wavered voice here and there, tears on the bridge of her eyes that refuse to fall but constantly threating to.

            That was okay, you could do that for her.

* * *

 

**Thor:**

            “You’re still tired,” your hands disappear into his blonde beard.

            You were too after the long nights alone in New Asgard.

            “And you’re still gorgeous,” He says.

            He was probably hoping that his pick-up lines (which were starting to become cheaper than cute) would make up for his ‘loss of looks’ and detachment from you in the five years. Ironically you had gained muscle; Brunnhilde putting you to work minutes after arriving to New Asgard.

             “And I’m gonna throw up,” The, despite Thor’s protests, raccoon says from a chair somewhere in the background.

            You probably had roommates before, maybe even gone to college. But this ship, although massive on the outside, was cramped on the inside. Dorm with roommates wasn’t the best description of the ship. Camping would be a better way of putting it. Sharing a tent with several people, things and animal that yells at you is the best way to describe.

            There was no way Thor would leave the Earth again without you. With only one thing left to lose he wouldn’t be leaving you alone.

* * *

 

**Bucky Barnes:**

          Bucky falls backwards like he’s full of cement. Although the comforter feels to be almost half a foot thick it still bounces you when he lands. He only made it to the middle of the bed, legs hanging off the side and spread out. With his long hair and beard it could be considered religious imagery.

            “You’ve slept way too much to be tired.” You comment, sliding along the bed until you were looking down at him.

            “Apparently _I_ haven’t slept in five year.” He says, refusing to open his eyes. Another groan, bringing the metal arm over his already closed eyes. “Lights are making it worse.”

            Another headache.

            Reaching towards the lamp and clicking it off. The hotel room you’ve paid out of pocket was put into a shade of almost complete darkness. Light from the curtained window put the room into a blue haze, Bucky beneath you nothing more then a very detailed shadow.

            “How’s that?” You whisper, hands going to either side of his head.

            He nods slightly, letting his arm go down but kept his eyes closed.

            They shoot open when your hands go on either side of his head. Thumbs gently rubbing over the temples, fingers sliding through the brown hair and to his scalp.

            After the uncertainty of your touch is gone it’s like watching a full puppy. Trying their best to stay awake with a tummy full of food and laying down in a large blanket. Little noises at the back of the throat, whining that he was starting to fall asleep when he wanted to stay awake.

            His head curls backwards when your hands slide through his hair. Scratching your way back upwards and smoothing the brown locks back down.

            By the time your thumbs rub over his eyebrows his jaw slackened and let the moans out easy. Every hardship of the last day, past problems he’d live with forever were all gone. At least for a moment, with your scratches and gentle touch.

* * *

 

**Natasha Romanoff:**

            The first invitation came minutes after your face is buried in Clint’s chest. Your hands are trapped between you, his head rests onto of yours. His arms around your back; holding your weight from falling to the ground then actually hugging you.

            He stayed in arm’s length the entire ride to the farm. Only letting go when the jet’s door opened and the yelling of “Dad! Dad!” comes with the air through the open door.

            You were the new adoptive member of the Barton family. An extra plate was added to the dinner table, a guest room was always ready, and Laura’s arms were always open when you entered the room and a beer was ready in the back, farthest part of the fridge when you would eventually need to talk.

            That entire time you kept it together; lips in a thin line at any mention of the past few weeks and always a half-hearted smile towards the children who look at you with questions they aren’t allowed to ask.

            It’s ironically little Nathan who breaks the hold on your emotions.

            “Where’s Auntie Nat?” A whispered question to the older, wiser, Lila unfortunately made in the same room as you.

            Trying to hide behind your book as the tears started running worked for a few seconds before Clint appeared in place of his children. Bottle opener ready in his back pocket for the next step of the healing process.  

Bruce Banner:

            Even standing on the kitchen chair you had to stand on your tippy-tip-toes to reach the back of the arm strap. Bruce could probably do it himself, but he stays perfectly still until you tightened it perfectly.

            It horrible and unfair to say, but your lives had turned for the better in the five years. It was still a permeant memory of Bruce raising a human hand in a thumbs up for the last time before you slapped and turned on the machines.

            It took some more weeks before you felt as comfortable with this Bruce/Hulk hybrid. A horrid mix of uncanny valley and outright monster forcing a few foot gap between you for a while. When you finally closed your notebook, unofficially completing your observation, his hands almost absorbed your head when he cupped your face.

* * *

 

**T’challa:**

          It was a waiting line to get to your man;

            His mother gets to him first. Cupping his face, kissing his face and forehead in quick succession. She coos in their mother language quickly. T’challa regressing to his mama’s little boy. Only able to stand there and take the affectionate assault.

            Next is his sister. A side arm bump and the Wakandan salute, Shuri immediately starts laughing after words. T’challa practically grabs her, pulling her into his chest in a hug that Shuri still laughs at. Better to laugh then to start crying as she so obviously wanted.

            Third was Okoye. She was respectful, butt of the spear slamming into the ground twice, an arm across her chest and fist over her heart. He, again, did the same, two handed version, of the salute. Bowing his head as she did hers.

            Finally, there was you, hands behind your back. Pretending this was the same as any other situation you had ever been in.

            He doesn’t play this game for every long. The moment you were close enough his hand goes out to your face. Cupping your cheek, forehead pressing against yours.

            This wasn’t the first time you had seen him after he came back. The first lasted mere seconds before that wizard appeared and he was gone again. That hurt worst then when the snap took him from you. At least then he hadn’t left by choice.

Pietro Maximoff:

          It’s hard to breath with your face pressed into a toned chest and long hair getting into what little opening your mouth could get.

            He had probably thought when he reunited with you it was be romantic. He’d hugged you tight, maybe spin you around. Do all that cute sappy shit you’d mock on all the movies you "ironically" watched.

            When he’d reunite with Wanda it would be more intimate in the opposite direction of yours. They wouldn’t have to say as much as all the cooing and almost tears he’d express with you. Try as you might, it would be hard to match the connection the twins had with each other.

            Now, maybe if he had seen you individually after the massive battle this could have happened. Instead he found you both at the same time. Wave of emotions for both of you combined until words were impossible. A combination of both scenarios when he rushed forward. No words, and a combination of a strong hugs pressed you both into his chest.

* * *

 

**Peter Parker:**

          May holds herself on the armchair like a teenager. Knees pressed to her chest, tea on the coffee table forgotten seconds after being set down.

            It became a weekly tradition that you’d visit at least twice a week. May would open the door with tired eyes and an even worse smile. She’s been burying herself in charity work days after the Snap, staying up her eyeballs in work to keep from coming home and seeing the empty room.

            Conversation was never the reason for your visits. Instead just taking comfort in each other’s isolation on separate sides of the living room.

            This night was no different as your own tea was already gone. Laying the exact opposite way of May with your legs outstretched and arms hanging off the chair’s arms.

            Sudden light takes over a quarter of the room. May’s legs stretch out from the chair as slow as the light had appeared. You rose at the same speed. Coming together between the chair and coffee table. May holding your shoulder, both to throw you backwards or to stop you from going forward, her nails digging into your shoulder.

            It’s dark on the other side with the only color being shifting shadows.

            Color finally comes through in shiny shades of red and blue covering one leg. Then another. Both attached to hips and a torso, leading to a brown-haired head who can’t speak through his tears.

            “Peter…” May gets him first.

            He wraps both arms around her neck, almost crushing her in a headlock. He presses his face against the side of her face. May holds him with almost equal strength. Holding him against her the same as she had after the plane crash years ago.

            The golden circle tightens and closes behind them. It’s a tie between the circle and the extremely intimate moment that you kept a generous distance from Aunt May and Peter.

            “Oh, I missed you.” She said, starting to rock him slightly.

            “I’m sorry…” She says into her shoulder. “I’m so, so sorry.”

            Your phone had five years’ worth of texts to Peter. Little good mornings and good nights. A few “I miss you” and other small messages. That Peter would read through every single one when May lets go of him grew a guilt garden in your stomach.

            Your hand reaches out and touches his shoulder. When he looks up, sees your attempt of a smile, he starts sobbing even harder.

* * *

 

**Stephen Strange:**

            His hands are shaking more then usual now. Old doorknobs were the enemy as every door you added a stop, only after permission of course. Any meals had to be pre-cut, you casually taking his plate and going to work without a single pause in conversation.

            It hard to say if Stephen still counts as mentally human by this point. That maybe God or the universe or whatever created the world in it’s infamy had no intention of humans knowing everything that Stephen now possessed. He combs over books he’s had to had memorized by now. Snapping them closed when you’d look over his shoulder. Warning you from trying to read some as you were either not prepared or just wouldn’t be able to handle the information.

            Stephen never outright told you he wanted to be alone. Instead moving through the sanctum at a pace you jogged to keep up with. Becoming more of a puppy or a side kick then as a romantic partner.

            It’s rare that he in body sleeps. No matter if he’s twitching beside you or an astral projection above you take possession of his body. Legs wrapped around his center, arms keeping him close as possible, everything to keep him from escaping from you again.

* * *

 

**Matt Murdock:**

          Your mug shatters across the floor. White pieces of glass stop from skirting around the floor by socks with sweatpants tucked into them.

            You should probably feel bad that you basically took over his apartment. Turning the place into an almost shrine to your lost man. Coming in every few days to make sure it wasn’t broken into during the few days you stayed at your place.

            Matt’s head tilts side to side for a few seconds. The shattering mug probably sent his senses into a spiral for a few seconds. Focusing instead on you, his partner, who had a five-year difference in their smell, heart beat and overall feel.

            Your name coming from his mouth was the greatest song ever sang.

            Hands cupping his face without saying anything. Matt standing there as you basically frisk him. Making sure he was completely there and not just some dream here to mock you.

            “Um, Honey?” He says, using the almost mocking version of a pet name.

            “If you do this again I’m gonna fucking kill you.” You whisper into his chest.

            It was a promise you made every time he didn’t answer his phone or came home late. Unsure what was going on he said the same he did every time. “Wear something nice to my funeral.”


	12. Suspicion of that mask (Self-indulgence with Matt Murdock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's dangerous for anyone to walk the city at night.  
> Like many in your situation there was a savior. A savior with a familiar voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is description of physical assault at the beginning. Just something some might wanna be aware of.

It only takes a second for the entire world to freeze. The couple walking a few feet ahead was suddenly too far away to scream to and the pressure under your right shoulder blade was the only thing organic in this world.

            Alleyways were always a danger and a big no-no when walking home at night. Matt more then once talking about a client he had who was assaulted in one of the many alleys you’d pass. A non-direct way of begging you not to make the same decision, take the long way around on the sidewalk. But when work lets out late and your apartment is just _so_ far away. A quick short cut was nothing to sneeze at, save maybe three to four minutes that could be spent in bed or the shower.

            The couple ahead was supposed to be your little canary in the cage. Make sure the area was safe as you walk a respectful distance behind them through the darkness. When they turned that corner the organic press behind you finally spoke.

            “Don’t scream, don’t say shit…” It was a male that hissed that behind you.

            It’s hard to think of a time you had screamed louder.

            It’s best not to think about what your attacker originally wanted. Now, with his victim already screaming, he had gone into panic mode. Hand against your head, fingers in your hair, side of your head slammed into the alley wall.

            “STOP!” You scream as if he would listen to you.

            At no point, between the first grab to being flat on your face, did you ever shut up. From screaming to death threats to profanity you bared your teeth and yelled. It’s a wonder what would have happened had you shut up after the first scream. That maybe that first scream could have been just enough to scare him away instead of making him panic. Instead he slams you against the wall three times before you finally stop.

            In a more dramatic scene they’d say you had heard your nose crack. That the blood running down your lips was copper on in the back of your throat. Or that you had started crying when a third person had entered the fray just before it was too late.

            This wasn’t that dramatic scene. No solid details could be pinned down, just trying to stay in the waking world instead of falling into the next.

            The final slap comes when your name is spoken.

            “It’s okay now,” the same voice says keeping you close. “You’re okay, I got you.”

An arm is cradling around the back of your neck. It’s hard to say what point this new guy had got his arms around you. Face turned into a chest that was just as thick as the concrete. He was likely trying to be comforting; but when you look through a hazy view into a red eyed man with actual horns it’s hard to feel comfortable.

            “Go away,” Your hands press against that too solid chest. Hitting against padding, pressing into his neck. “get off, get off, get off!”

            Everything you’ve heard about Dare Devil can be boiled down to either a god sent or a horror story. Had you lived on the words of Karen you might’ve been more grateful. She was one of his biggest cheerleaders, though. The entire situation was the equivalent of meeting your friend’s Pitt for the first time by it snapping while connected to a chain.

            To his credit he does let you go. Scrambling away on hands and knees, purse still in your shaky grip, you escape down the alley.

\--

            Mr. Taxi man has been glances back at your every fourteen to sixteen seconds your entire ride home.

            How did you look from his perspective? A battered girl pushing into the taxi’s back seat. Rattling off an address One eye was already swelling. Nose, absolutely broken and dripping on your shirt. Staring through the window to avoid making eye contact with him.

            “Hospital is just a few blocks…” He offered, already proving to be more invasion then the average driver.

            “Just take me home please.” You said hoping he’d take the hint.

            He does, staying quiet, but continues looking back at you.

            Your now cracked phone was in your hand. Little bits of glass rubbed out onto your thumb. Trying to avoid the caring man, staring into the dark void of cracked glass and potential companionship.

            Having a small friend group of lawyers has its advantages, but it can also be annoying as hell. A simple fender bender and Foggy is throwing around numbers and ideas of a lawsuit, all talk quieting down when you explained the lady was probably around when dirt became a thing. Karen was another outlet, but she had subtly started to lose her chill. Calling her and you’d have an ambulance at your door and probably an interview with three different people including her.

            The third member of your little ensemble contact stared from your phone screen. A picture taken when he was asleep; head resting on an upward palm. Suit jacket off, tie loosened. His glasses were resting on top of his head and mouth slightly opened. He had been snoring when you looked up at him. It was likely he hadn’t heard your phone click and didn’t know the picture was your profile for him.

            “This is it, Sweetie.” Mr. Taxi says. Car pulling into park. “Unless…hospital is nearby.”

            The hospital wasn’t nearby. He knew that and so did you, but something says he would have sped through the streets to help you.

            “Thank you,” Money is passed between the seat towards him. Not bothering to check how much you gave other than it was more then needed.

            Glass presses into your thumb when you hit the call button. You’re through the first ring and almost up the flight of stairs when Matt picks up.

            “Hey, hi, how are you?”

            Just at the sound of his voice had your dam had started cracking.

            “I’m…I’m something. Are you busy right now?” Final step and there’s your door a few feet away.

            “No, just playing with papers. Is something up?” He asks.

            “Not really. Just…would you mind coming over? Please?” Any attempt at keeping him out of the loop before he arrives went out the window when your voice quivered just enough.

            “I’ll be right there,” He hangs up before you can try and reassert yourself.

            It’s a loft style apartment where the entire space was open with the “bedroom” separated by half-walls. Couch against the half-wall, desk against the other. Entering and you’re staring right at the kitchen area at the far corner. Bag and jacket tossed onto a counter that you can’t even pretend to know if they landed or not.

            Your outward window showed a straight shot down a stretch of road. A view with nothing but dotted lights and a wave of blaring horns just outside the glass. Look hard enough and there are the silhouettes of the people inside: two shapes coming together as one in front of their window, another with a waving arm and a bent elbow towards their ears, a third was just leaning forward in the window staring at a similar view as yours.

            So many people, and not one heard you scream.

            Blood was mostly wiped from your mouth and under the nose, leaving a little smears like you had gotten too excited with the ketchup.

            Matt must have dead sprinted from the office to make it to your door in under a half-an hour. It was actually pretty amusing to imagine him running down the street. Using the people he crashed and bumped into as some form of a map to get him there. Panting in his gray sweater, regular jeans and untied shoes. He had even left his cane and glasses at the office.

            You only had a few seconds before those rough hands were on your face. Although an office worker they were rough and worn from those work outs with a boxing bag. Somehow his thumb managed to find the one, miniscule, bit of blood under your nose.

            “That’s not good,” He says, way too calmly.

            “No, it’s really-.”

            Something between a pop and a crack sounded through the apartment. Hands you would usually seek comfort from are both holding the sides of your heads. Thumbs pressing on either side of your nose and quick, painful pressure from either side.

            “JESUS FUCK! WHY?” You screamed pulling away holding your face.

            This bastard was trying to turn you towards him. “Sorry, I’m sorry. I fixed it, I’m sorry.” He says, pulling you close to you.

            “I fucking hate you.” Hands still to your face, entire body pressing into his. His arms are around your back, rubbing it gently with a soft ‘I know,’ and ‘no you don’t. That’s not possible,’.

            It started with a single tear, and then another, and then you’re crying. Hands to your face now to keep the tears from flooding the earth. It becomes body wracking sobs that you wouldn’t have notice he had leaned forward against you. Hands under your buttocks and thighs, lifting you in the air, legs around him like a tired little kid being carried back to the car.

            It took some weeks before Matt was completely comfortable in your apartment. Asking you to walk him around his first visit. Thinking back, it might have been some weird form of non-sexual foreplay to get you both closer to the bed without having to do the little “nice place you have” dance.

            He had yet to spend the entire night, blaming the loud cars outside your window and the bedsheets, he knew enough to navigate. Setting you down on the couch, both hands on your knees and kneeling down like the knight he likes to pretend to be.

            “What happened? Sweetie, please, what’s wrong?” It’s an ongoing theory that Matt learned all his pet names from married couples during church services. Men and women married longer then you’ve been alive who are either deep in love or waiting for the other to die. Depending on his mood. You now know the difference between ‘Sweetie’ and _‘sweetie’._

You told him the entire story from walking through the alley to your savior who you had yelled at. Mathew eventually taking your hands in his to keep them away from your mouth while you sobbed through the story.

            “You really need to go to the police, hospital.” He says holding your hands.

            “Mathew…”

            “Just, at least a report. I can get Detective Mahoney here, you don’t even have to go in.”

            “Matt, please, I can’t right now.” If his hands weren’t holding yours they would have been holding your face again. “Please, not tonight.”

            “Okay, it’s okay, it’s okay now.” He says catching you when you weren’t even falling. “I’ll stay with you tonight, if you want.”

            In a normal night you’d have made a joke. _“Great, so I can save you when he comes back for me.”_ You’d have said. Instead you just nod into his shoulder, wiping your nose into his coat fabric.

* * *

 

            _“It’s okay now,”_

            He had whispered that to you throughout the entire night.

            Days later and you can still hear it somewhere in the back of your brain. Supposedly two different voices becoming one. It’s impossible to tell who had said it when and where.

            “You can hardly tell,” Karen says after a few seconds of silence.

            Your face was a mosaic of green and brown lining one side             of your face. The eye on the same side was just as swollen, almost closed. Worst had to be your nose; slightly twerked from breaking and fixing without proper medical care.

Gently your fingers touch over the injuries.

            “It makes you look tough. In a ‘you should see the other guy’ sort of way.” Karen was doing her best to make light of the injuries. The bruising was too bad to completely ignore.

            First time you saw the other guy was behind a two-way mirror. You hadn’t gotten a good look during the initial assault, but you heard the voice. Brought into a small room with only glass separating you from a man who had tried to bash your head into a wall. He was hidden somewhere in the line of men holding little numbers against their chests.

            One by one the men stepped forward. “Don’t say shit,” each said with the same enthusiasm as asking for food. When number four took his turn your hand slammed a vice like grip around Detective Mahoney’s forearm. “Him, it’s number four.” You had said and was immediately escorted out.

            The waitress stops by your table. Breadstick time.

            “Was there anything weird about the way Daredevil worked with you?” You asked.

            It was no secret that Karen had interactions with Daredevil. Mostly just a side comment when Foggy would try and shame her for her lack of chill. A few of her pieces involving it all was framed in the office.

            “He’s intimidating. We only met at night and most of the time he was beating someone up while I was running away.” Karen says.

            “Funny, he was beating someone up while I just laid there.” You said, a forced laugh coming from both of you. “His voice, though. It sounded weird.”

            “Sounded like the typical white guy.”

            “Well, yeah, but didn’t he sound familiar to you? In any way?”

            “What are you talking about?” She asks.

            “He sounded like Matt. He, he sounded just like Matt.” You bluntly said. The whole point of bribing Karen to come out with you for food.

            “You got hit pretty hard,” She says. As though your face wasn’t proof enough of that. “He maybe sounded like him, but you were under serious stress. Next person you talked to was Matt and maybe that combined the two.”

            “But he smelled like him,” You argued, watching your friend tear a bread stick apart.

            The look Karen gave you would have been hilarious if you weren’t trying to get her to see your point. “And what does Matt smell like?” She asks instead.

            “Sweat,” You say. “He always smells like sweat.”

            Either the man had some sweat gland issue who he was running everywhere. More specifically he smelled slightly like salt. Like you could taste him on the tip of the tongue just by being too close.

            You were of the lucky few who caught him before the sweat set in. Mere moments after a shower or in the middle of the night. Starting together in an embrace before he travels across to the other side of the bed. Curled up in an almost fetal position, his back towards you. In those moments he still had a trace smell of salt, but mostly of leather. Like the smells of the world was pounded into him through the years and became a permeant part of his being.

            That’d be too long (and sappy) to explain, though.

            “Oh my god, he does.” Karen laughs a little. Unaware that you had probably just ruined the next time she’s in the same room as Matt.

            “So, you see my point?” You try to bring it back around.

            “Yeah, Matt has gone this long without learning about deodorant.”

            “No, that the other guy, that Daredevil, smells like Matt. That he sounds like, that he sounds and smells just like Matt.” Desperation to _not_ sound crazy was starting to make you sound insane.

            Karen leans forward and says your name calmly. She was going into Lawyer mode, a specific state to be feared by lawyers and their general law knowing co-workers can transform to. This specific she had used on their defendants known to ignore advice, assume they know better or (overall) are just too stupid to read between the lines.

            “You are aware Matt is blind,” Karen rests her case.

* * *

 

            Karen was your best bet at having a clear look into your theory. With everything Karen had been apart of, everything she’s ever discovered or seen, she’d be the closest you’d get to a clear opinion. And your theory was shot out of the sky like a duck on the first day of hunting season.

            A few days in and your bruises started to turn into paler shades of green. Supposedly this meant they were healing. This didn’t stop you from flinching and hissing lowly when Matt got too close to the face.

            You’ve taken refuge in his apartment for the time being. Sticking close to his side during the day, taking an Ambien at night for the expected sleep problems. He always kept you in mostly arm reaching distance in the day. Both of you thinking you can keep the other safe if the bastard showed his face again. The more likely scenario is you’d trip over each other trying to keep the other safe.

            Matt’s side was to you now. Staring straight ahead as he moved his hands over cooking utensils. His sweat pants tucked into thick socks and wearing _that_ hoodie. The same hoodie he wore that night.

            “Where were you about a week ago? When that dick-bag tried to grab me.” You asked.

            He pauses. “I think I was at the office when you called. Foggy was still there when I ran out.”

            “Where were your glasses?”

            He completely stops preparing the gourmet meal, tilting his head slightly where your voice was coming from. “What?”

            “Your glasses. You always wear them when you’re out.” This was sounding worse the more you added. Might as well keep going. “And you weren’t wearing them when you got to my apartment.”

            He left his station to walk towards where you were sitting. Your legs already pulled up to your chest.

            “I can’t walk around without my glasses on?” He asks, sitting down on the other side of the couch. Already embarrassed you only shrugged.

            He unintentionally let the silence sit. “Sweetie?” He asks.

            “Sorry, I shrugged.” You said.

            “Oh, okay. Is something wrong? Did something else happen?” He asks.

            Your right leg stretches out towards him until your toes touched his legs. His hand slides down your foot and gently holds the ankle. Thumb rubbing over the knuckle on the side of the ankle.

            “Nothing else happened, he didn’t do anything else to me. He didn’t get the chance.” Every close friend you came across after the attack gave you the same sad, knit eyebrows look and the silent question. “That devil guy stopped him.”

            “I’m glad he did, I’m really glad he did.” Matt has the audacity to say.

            “Where were you?” A stupid, stupid question.

            “I told you, I was at the offi-.”

            “No, _where_ were you?” You’re crying now. Voice trying to compensate for the lump in your throat that’d turn into a full-on sob if you weren’t careful.

            It was that stupid little kid part of your brain that had created that theory. That somehow Matt would have pushed through himself and save you just from…what? Force of will? Love?

            Simply put you were one of thousands saved every day by a set of beyond belief people. It was unfair to expect yourself to be any more special then the other thousands. It was unfair to put Matt on the same level as that set. It was unfair to expect any of that.

            His gently hold tightened briefly. Pulling your ankle towards him, pulling it between his side and the back of the couch. Your other leg coming to his other side. Your hands pressing under your backside to scoot closer as he did the same.

            “I’m right here, I’m here.” He says, almost laying over you.

            Your arms are around his neck, hiding those pathetic tears into his shoulder.

            “I’m not going anywhere, I’m right here.” He says. Keeping you from looking towards a specific wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was pretty self-indulgent.


	13. Powers that be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your partners aren't the only ones with sudden power.

**Steve Rogers: Strength**

          “Don’t move!” He uses a softer version of his _“Captain”_ voice.

            You never made it to the sink to get that drink of water. Still in that half-awake, slightly drugged, state where you weren’t one hundred percent sure what was going on. Whatever it was that the medic gave you, it was very strong.

            It helped, though. Being in a coma was preferable over sitting double over in pain.

            Steve kneeled next to you with a broom and dustpan. Sweeping up the pieces of glass that weren’t currently stuck in your hand. You completely missed him kneeling in front of you, staring at the red coming from the glass. Add a necklace to your hand and you could have been a jewelry. Instead you’re just a very high individual without pants.

            In your drugged state a lot of stuff was missed. You didn’t notice being carried through the hall like a bride. The bare minimum being done for you to sleep comfortably by your man (pants, bra). When he slipped out of your grip and replaced himself with your biggest pillow, or when he looked over his arms. Touching over hand shaped bruises that weren’t there before the aggressive cuddle session.

            It’s a wonder whether you’ll remember the glass shattering like absolutely nothing.

* * *

 

**Tony Stark: Extremis virus**

            This was supposed to be a safe house. After one of the Stark’s vaults was raided, with many dangerous thing gone, it seemed best to cut the loose strands. Pepper went for an extended visit with her parents on some distant trip. Happy got his well-deserved vacation and you took the long route to the summer house.

            A burner cell was settled, like a weight, in your purse. Your hand clutched it while walking to the front step.

            To your attackers credit, at least he was smart enough to wait outside the house. The moment your driver side door was shut the hand slapped over your mouth. It was so fast, so violent, it’s amazing that your nose didn’t break.

            What did break was your skin from the needle. In the dark dreams the needle was so long it cut through your neck and burst through the other side. In those same nightmares to come your attacker was a foot taller and a lot meaner. Your nose would be broken in those same dreams.

            He’s gone before the entire thing is pumped into your throat. It wasn’t a typical syringe you had been stabbed with. This thing was thick and heavy, like a .22 was pressed against your neck. When he let go the needle dragged down, your future nightmare coming true before it was ripped out by your own free-will.

            Everything happened too fast. Starting on your feet and then your knees. Looking at a teeny-tiny red puddle creating under your neck. The wound felt to already be festering and it was getting hot. It was getting way too fucking hot.

            The burner was a flip phone that shaky fingers made it hard to open. With only one number in it, all you had to do was press the green button.

            “Hi, Sweetie, miss me already-.”

            “It’s fucking hot, Tony. Tony, please, it’s hot.” It’s boiling from your neck and racing through veins.

            “Hey, hey, what’s up? Where are you? What’s wrong?” Tony was a man who liked to be in the know. Likely, where ever he was, he had pulled up your flight plan and car destination.

            “Stabbed, someone stabbed me. Tony, they’re here. They stabbed me with it.” Miraculously you hadn’t gone into shock yet, giving every small detail you could in the few seconds it took to be attacked.

            Your hand grabs the needle/gun from the ground next to you. More to be sure it isn’t lost or doesn’t roll away then to make any sense of it. While holding it in your hand the chemical had broken through the veins. Your skin starting hazy orange, by the time you stop staring it had already gone into spray tan on the inside level.

            “Help is heading your way. Calm thoughts, power calm thoughts.” Tony says on the other end.

            “Anthony, not now…it hurts.” Arms by your head, talking into the phone on the ground.

            “Not a joke this time, They’re almost there. I’m almost there.”

* * *

 

**Thor: Prophecy**

          Possession is a danger that very few think about. Guns and magic, that which are visible, will turn the stomach more then a simple possibility. It was why no one blinked at the supper table.

            Asgardian meals varied from one degree to the other. Either it was an official affair; somber talking and serious topics. Or it was a mini celebration with loud stories and the servants drinking near as much as the guests. In the heart of that sea of warriors was you. Arm around your man, lifting a mug for him to drink from.

            Around the ankles of the guests, below the music and talking, an invisible arm slides through the air. It billows skirts and climbs the table legs to find it’s target.

            With all the movement no one blames you for not noticing your shifting pant leg. There was nothing to feel as it traveled up your leg. Because of this the room is entirely silent when your back over arches.

            _“Brother to traitor to brother,”_ It’s not your voice but it’s coming out of your mouth. _“warrior with poisoned mouth. Monster and man in one. Man of power, king to none. Four heroes to win but must fail to be done.”_

Any expected glowing there was stayed entirely to your mouth and eyes. White in color like a star trapped inside your head.

            There was never any doubt that Thor would catch you when you fall. You won’t remember most of it, though. The thick arm that goes around your back, Thor yelling for a healer. And you certainly won’t remember the not-your-words being in haste on a napkin with grease.

* * *

 

**Bucky Barnes: Flight**

          The accident left the tops of your feet and calves a dark shade of yellow. No matter how hard you scrubbed the color remained. It didn’t hurt, the splash of chemicals only tingled for a few minutes. Tony had grabbed you before it would go any farther.

            Bedtime comes, and that color is still there. “It doesn’t hurt, does it?” Bucky asks for what has to be the hundredths time before falling asleep.

            Bucky Boy is a military man, he can sleep anywhere. He snores, to start with, a heavy natural sound he could never make in the years before. It was annoying at first, then it was a lullaby. One that changed the deeper you fell into sleep.

            For the briefest of seconds his chest was your pillow and strong arms your blankets. They started to slip away in the same moment. In that same place of sleeping where you know you’re sleeping but not fully awake enough to do waking things. Your blanket and pillow are gone before you’re half-way to the ceiling.

            It wasn’t fast, it was slow, like sinking into water. Baggy shirt and pants weighted toward the floor around your face. To anyone who might have been looking on this was something straight out of science fiction. Poor, perfectly normal, woman taken from her bed and lovers arms by an evil force from outside this world.

            You don’t completely wake until your back hits the ceiling.

            “Fuck fuck fucking-James!” He’s below you, sleeping on his back and still snoring.

            Both hands press the ceiling around your head. Toes scrapping the tiles to find some kind of hold instead of this foreign force.

            Bucky wakes up, but a more appropriate way to say is that he shot up. The word “James” is a potent one. Last time it was used by you was when you slipped from the shower. The tear went through your leg, running from ankle to knee, blood everywhere like an animal had been slaughtered. A few stitches and a small scar later and everything is good now.

            Every night before bed Bucky’s hair would be bound back in a bun. An agreement in exchange for you to take the position of big spoon. After a long sleep the bun had started to get free. Thick strands of hair he brushes out of his face, running down the back of his neck and over his shoulders.

            “James!” You have to scream for the third time for him to look up.

            “What are you doing?” He says towards the ceiling.

            “Please get me down.” In another situation you’d make a snide comment. _“Taking a nap, wanna come up and join me?”_ Instead it was just terrifying. Close to tears at being so high up without any sort of safety.

            He quickly hops onto the bed, arms reaching upward. Even on his tip toes he wouldn’t reach the ceiling. “You have to grab my hands, just reach out for them.” He says.

            It’s hard to let your arms hang down. As though your arms pressed against the ceiling were the one thing keeping you from hitting the floor. Your dominate arm shoots forward, like a test. When you didn’t fall your other arm joined the first. A few inches gap remained that Bucky was still reaching towards.

            “Babes, lean forward. I won’t let you fall. I have you.” He says.

            Leaning forward seemed to be the straw that broke the camels back. Before your fingers even touched gravity came back on. Falling too fast to even scream. Landing on Bucky was the equivalent of landing on a pile of bricks.

            His stance on the bed was already unsteady with the mattress. Your sudden weight on him took both of you down.

            “We need to talk to Bruce about this. Those chemicals did something to you.” He grabs one of your calves. Good at strategies but not smart enough to avoid touching possible infected skin.

* * *

**Natasha Romanoff: Telepathy**

          It started with a whisper in the middle of the night. One spoke just behind your head. At first you would shoot up, search the voice out. Then you’d bury your face into red hair and hope the perfect locks would drown it away.

            Eventually the whispers weren’t contained to your dreams, didn’t stay below your ears, and got louder during the day.

            _Now what’s she doing?_

You know that voice, you’ve heard that voice so many times. Sam, Sam who is staring at you from over a bowl of cereal. Milk dripping from his spoon as your hands press firmly against your temples.

            It’s a similar situation now, months later. The outdoor seating of a coffee house with the whispering words building on top of each other. Your tower of babble was building just above your hairline. Pressing down on thoughts of overpriced coffee and whether or not the date across the table _really_ cared about the story or was just pretending to so they’d get free shit.

            In that mess was a speaking voice. One that was real and louder then others. One that had a hand attached to it. Reaching through the words and taking hold of your own hand. That voice is silent long enough for a kiss on the palm.

            “Is it okay here?” She asks.

            “Yeah,” You say, smiling through the crowded room. “Everyone here is just so boring.”

            Nat rests her chin on the palm of her other arm, elbow down on the table. “Are my thoughts boring?” She asks with a smile.

            It was harder then it seemed to focus on a single thought in the see. Finding that familiar voice and making it clear-.

            Her teeth show as though she could tell when you pinned her thoughts down. Based on the face you made it was likely she could.

* * *

 

**T’challa: Influence**

            “Please, **_stop!_** ” You scream.

            Okoye’s hand slaps over your face so hard your nose almost broke.

            Men and women shouting in English and their mother language suddenly silent. Mouths hanging open, bodies a quarter of the way out of their seats. In the center was your king, arm outstretched, almost out of his own seat. He had probably seen you’re mouth open but was too far away to stop you.

            The only ones to still be moving was one quarter of Dora Milaje. The few members who volunteered to wear ear plugs. One being Okoye herself, trusting her women to watch over the delegates while she focused entirely on you.

             “Fix it,” she says, her love for you only going so far.

            “ ** _Move, go ahead and move._** ” Her hand moves and you speak. Hand going back to its position over your mouth.

            The delegates were much calmer after that. No more shouting at each other about the state of your new ‘gift’. Words like, ‘outsider’ and ‘serious danger’ were still thrown around. They just didn’t look straight in your direction as much.

            T’challa, on the other hand, stared right at you. No hatred, like the others, but with concern. Hand over his mouth, a reflection of Okoye’s over yours. A twin vow of silence.

* * *

 

**Pietro Maximoff: Spike**

          It’s best described as a Charley-horse that hits you in the middle of the night. Still stuck in the arms of sleep when the underside of your forearms started to hurt.

            From Pietro’s perspective you had started having a nightmare. Waking slowly to your little groans, kicking feet and scrapping against the sheets to get some sort of leverage against whatever you were trying to fight against.

            For a few seconds you were actually pretty cute. Until the extra bones burst out and into the bed.

            It was like a muscle you just recently learned how to use. Like a baby kicking the hell out of their mother after their legs developed. The spikes, sharper then a knife, were probably growing your entire life. Fit snugly between the bones in your arm. There wasn’t even any blood.

            Just a thick slash Where Pietro used to be.

* * *

 

**Peter Parker: Force field**

          He won’t stop singing, he won’t stop fucking singing.

            You’ve asked, you were polite, you glared, and the motherfucker is still singing off key. A slowed down rap song Satan himself wrote. Starting a few minutes into the class, singing louder when the teacher asked him to stop, and kept going after it was revealed your teacher was a coward.

            There wasn’t a student in the class that wasn’t annoyed by this kid. From MJ flipping off the back of his head a seat to your right, to Flash staring to the ceiling looking for an answer from God.

            Peter sat in a seat a row behind you. Sometimes pressing a pen into your back to look at him. He’d then pretend to mimic the singing. But much better. The joy he’d bring you only lasted a few seconds before that kid would hit a high note or get louder.

            You were in the prime spot for his little performance. Staring at the back of his head, staring at that greasy and watching his head move with the music.

            There was a lot of space between his ears. His teeny-tiny brain was probably bouncing around in that head space.

            In one of those massive gaps you could practically see something building. A bubble of death starting tinier then a grain of sand. Becoming larger and larger, growing into a bean and then into a grape.

            Hand to his forehead and the singing stops. But it was too late.

            His jaw moves, whether to sing or talk, and the entire room was red.

            You were in the frontline of the splash zone. Hair pressed to your forehead, copper in the mouth.

            With your vision obscured it was impossible to say who screamed first. It was a male who had started it. Desks scrapping and dragging against the floor as the students all try to run at the same time.

            Hair and blood moved from your eyes with a shaky hand. The grain of salt had grown to be bigger then a bowling ball. Where the singer’s head had once been was now a see-through orb with red and matter sliding down the sides.

            Peter was pulled from the room with the rest of the classmates. Sitting with MJ throwing up against the lockers with several other students leaning forward.

            Peter running back in to get you would have been more heroic had he not slipped flat on his back.

* * *

 

**Stephen Strange: Out of body**

            Stare too long into the rock’s eye and it will give you a gift.

            A simple rock behind thick glass, so ordinary you could find one in your backyard. Only thing that made it look even mildly special was the white gem in it’s center. Even then a kid could have glued a fake diamond it.

            For a brief second the diamond turned purple.

            Then you hit the floor.

            Very few in the world will have the privilege of watching themselves pass out. Cringing at the sound your head made when hitting the floor. Later you’d wonder why literally no one in twelve-foot radius around you even tried to save you.

            Your gift given was something others took actual years to learn. Watching Steven lay in bed while actually somewhere in the air was one thing. The man was at least kind enough to lay in a position like he was sleeping at night, instead of sitting crossed legged at the end of the bed. Watching him ‘sleep’ was different then actual sleep; there was no twitching or change in breath like a normal person would going through their dreams. He was just laying there, the only thing moving was his chest for hours at a time.

            Your body laid like that on the floor of the Sanctum. If it weren’t for your rising chest, you might as well be death.

            Instead of looking to your breathing chest your hands gripped your head. Starting to scream, without ever making a noise.

* * *

 

**Matt Murdock: Blood**

          It’s important to look at thing from the other perspectives:

            In your own eyes there had never been anything more natural. The same way your fingers move in the smallest ways, the man was doing the same. His arms and legs jerked in several directions, he was your doll on a string. Being ripped apart by your vague gestures.

            Matt, on the other hand, was going into overdrive. The man, the attacker, was screaming. Heart going faster then it shoulder, and it sounded like a river was rushing through his arms and legs.

            Your attacker had come at you both with one mission on his mind. A mission that was cut short by the twitching of your fingers. The attack happened in a few shots: the first, your arm in Matt’s, focused on the walk. Second and your attacker stepped out, before he was the attacker. Third, Matt’s grabbed the front of your shirt, pulling you behind him. Fourth, and your attacker starts screaming.

            “What-What’s happening?!” He’s sobbing now.

            It had started with rats. Those little fuckers on the subway that you learned to play with on the rides back and forth. Making your own little ballet with them. Now, all that seemed to be practice. The real dance came from this man. His feet going to pointe, arms in the air, begging to stop.

            Matt says your name again. Coming back into the picture by grabbing your wrists. Your attacker drops to the ground somewhere behind Matt. Your focus on your man, whose grip had started to hurt.


End file.
